Hey Arnold: After the Jungle
by originella
Summary: Leaving the jungle of San Lorenzo behind, Arnold and Helga begin 6th grade at P.S. 118 as an official couple. However, in the future, documented by a series of letters from a teenaged Helga to Arnold, we learn that their middle school life is in the past and the couple are living on opposite sides of the country. What happened to make them separate, and when, or if, will it change?
1. Stay With Me, Football Head

Chapter One: Stay With Me, Football Head

"Did I say you could touch me?" I snap as I yank my hand away from Arnold's, only to smile at the notion that he wanted to hold my hand at all. I manage to catch a glimpse of him smiling back; even though the whirlwind summer after saving his parents back in San Lorenzo had ended, we were official—finally! After over seven years of pining for him, I was finally, finally, finally the official girlfriend of Arnold Shortman.

I walk just behind Phoebe and Gerald—finally together as well—and sense Arnold is still behind me. When Mr. and Mrs. Shortman show up behind us, I am shocked yet again at this dedication from parental units. Knowing that, even after each and every thing I went through in Central America, I was still just " _the girl_ " to my inept mother and overbearing father. Arnold's parents stayed with us until we arrived at P.S. 118, and I stood just inside the doors, waiting for him as he waved goodbye.

"You can't come in," he tells them gently.

"When are you getting out?" his dad asks.

"3:30," he replies.

"We'll be waiting here!" I hear from behind me as Arnold troops up the steps, and the doors close behind him.

"Must be nice," I say, allowing him to take my hand as we walk along the hallway together, no longer caring if we were spotted. Of course, my biggest fear remained —I mean, what if Lila suddenly wanted Arnold for herself, now that we were together. I knew it was silly to think about, but she was like Arnold's Cho Chang, and I was his Ginny Weasley.

Arnold smiles at me, squeezing my hand. "I guess so—all they want to do is spend time with me. I'm glad you were so cool about the double dates."

"It's a new experience for both of us, Football Head," I say, cracking a smile so as he will know I mean it as a term of endearment. "You know as well as I do that I have no idea what the term functional family means, but you have it now..."

"So, you do know what it means?" Gerald asks as we move towards our new lockers, having just heard the last bit of our conversation. "With Arnold's parents back and the two of you spending every waking moment with them since we got back from San Lorenzo... Mmm-mmm!" he says, grinning and nodding in approval before turning back to Phoebe.

I turn to look at Arnold, barely staring at my locker opener. "If you don't want me hanging out with you guys..."

"Of course I do," Arnold said, cutting across me quickly and smiling at me. "Hey, I mean, ever since we got together last summer, I know that we need to spend more time together. Communication is the key to every relationship."

"Now you sound like a psychologist," I say, shaking my head and hiding my smile as I manage to heave some particularly heavy books into my locker.

"How's things going with Dr. Bliss?" he asked, setting his books carefully onto the shelf the locker provided before gathering up the things he needed and slamming the door behind him. "Good sessions thing summer?"

I nod. "Yeah—real good," I tell him, slamming my locker myself and turning to follow him, feeling elated as he takes my hand again. "I think we really managed to hit a breakthrough these last couple of weeks..."

"Oh, yeah?" Arnold asks as we walked towards Mr. Simmons's class. "What did you manage to chat about?"

"How my feelings for you really got in the way of my being polite," I reply. "I mean, now that we're...you know, whatever we are...I think I know how to be polite in general society. I've even stopped hitting Brainy, because of..." I flush then and lower my eyes as we step into the classroom, going to the back row and sitting next to each other.

"Because of what?" Arnold asks, setting down his books and proceeding to organize his pencils and erasers. "What made you hit him?"

"I would take out the locket and say something epically romantic and spouting my love for you," I say, putting my nose in a book of poetry and absolutely and positively considering switching schools. "No big deal..."

Arnold, to my surprise, is smiling. "You know, I just wish you'd managed to fully say something earlier."

"When?" I asked him, turning to face him, forcing myself to keep my tone somewhat civil. "You were practically offering yourself up to Lila and then we saved the neighborhood and then I went blind and then you found your father's journal and then we went to San Lorenzo," I say, feeling myself coming dangerously close to what Dr. Bliss calls a "public overreaction". I sigh. "I'm sorry," I say after a moment, considering opening my old fake book with a stick figure of him inside.

Arnold just continues to smile at me. "You know, had I known completely about your home life, I think I would have understood where you were coming from on a daily basis."

I sigh. "Dr. Bliss thinks I transferred all my love to you," I tell him softly, keeping note of our fellow students filing into the classroom around us. "I know you think it's silly..."

"I don't," Arnold assures me, reaching across the divide and taking my hand firmly in his. "You know how I feel."

I smile back at him in a rueful manner, feeling absolute comfort as he squeezes my hand. "Well, you sure _showed_ me as much," I reply.

"All right, class," says Mr. Simmons, strutting to the front of the classroom as Arnold and I immediately whip our hands back into our own vicinities. "Your essays on San Lorenzo are due today. Why don't you pass them up front now and I can have them graded by lunchtime?"

"You sure that's a good idea?" Phoebe whispers to Gerald as she manages to pull out a thick stack of papers with grace from her folder. "I mean, shouldn't one spend more time on the grading process?"

Gerald shrugs. "I don't know, but I do know that Simmons won't be too happy with what a lot of you say about him, and what he did with those monkeys at that prison camp..."

"That sounds wrong," I mutter to myself.

"Too bad we weren't there to see it," Arnold jokes, handing his paper up to the front of the classroom with mine. "If Simmons hadn't gone on the trip with us, he'd think it was all fake news..."

"Something like that," I say, smiling to myself as Mr. Simmons collects all of our essays and places them on a corner of his desk.

"Okay, class, right now we're going to do some fraction review work to see how much you remember about last year," Mr. Simmons says, gathering up a second stack of papers. "I'll be nice and let you use calculators for it, but try to exercise your brain a bit and let it do most of the work for you."

"Here we go again," Rhonda groaned, into her phone. "Day one of middle school and already, they have us doing grueling, undignified, manual labor, with mere sticks," she says, holding up her pencil, "as our tools. Tell me, o great world outside these prison walls, what is happening out there, as we use our brains to do insufficient math problems that won't even allow us to expand our knowledge in any practical way—"

"Rhonda, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times," Mr. Simmons says, swiping her phone as he walks by. "No vlogging in the classroom, especially right before a review worksheet."

"But, my followers have need of me to document every foreseeable thing of my life in an electronic fashion!" Rhonda wails. "I'll bet that phone is worth more than you make in a year."

"Two years, probably," Harold mutters under his breath.

"Now, class— _no_ electronics!" Mr. Simmons says, growing exasperated. "If there's a family emergency, your family should call the front office and you can speak to them down there," he says, putting Rhonda's phone into his pocket and continuing to hand out the review worksheets.

I take a look at the worksheet myself and raise my eyebrows—to actually remember the material after a summer spent on the arm of Arnold Shortman was nothing short of a miracle. As I looked up, I saw Lila confidently writing down the answers in her perfect handwriting, I tried not to let her Dorothy Gale lookalike getup to get the better of me as I continued to write down various answers to these problems, barely even looking at my worksheet. _Focus Pataki_ , I thought to myself, knowing that my father would notice a bad grade and never a good one. _You've got this, I know you do_...

We continued with the review worksheet for another fifteen minutes before Mr. Simmons collected them and then told us to write a poem in the method of our choice—haiku, limerick, ballad, or any other way we could think of. I had always been fond of haikus, as the structure seemed simple enough and it was a quick way of getting your point across. Thinking to myself, I knew that it had to be epic, and just crossed my fingers that Lila's didn't have a double meaning of some kind, mainly that she now liked-liked Arnold...

 _As the summer dies,_

 _One must know autumn from it_

 _As it comes too quick_

 _For the leaves change, too_

 _And the nights grow cold and dark_

 _Waiting for the snow_

 _And classes begin_

 _They are all so very long_

 _And for what purpose?_

I thought that three stanzas would get the point across, and was relieved when I heard the informative sounds of various other pencils being lowered onto the desks of the other students around me. All I can hope for at this point is Mr. Simmons not mentioning how Olga could have written a better poem. I debate not even sharing it, for this form of rejection—although great—would be a great way to cope with the outside world. Now with Arnold in my life, not as my tormented, but as something more than a friend, I knew that I could handle this kind of rejection, if not the ultimate kind.

I merely handed in my poem with the others, not wanting to risk getting laughed at for the melancholy tone it brought. Of course, I had to be grateful, didn't I? Finally achieving my goal of seven years, attempting and succeeding in getting Arnold to love me back. As I peeked over at him, I felt warmth spread through me then as his eyes met mine and smiled back. Months ago, if that would have happened, I would have sneered at him and calling him a "Football Head" in that vehement tone I'd worked on getting rid of for so long.

As soon as Mr. Simmons gave the word an hour and a half later, I gathered my things to place in my locker, walking out of the classroom with Arnold, who took my hand again. We ventured to our lockers and opened them, placing our books on the respective shelves and slamming the doors behind us. I turned to Phoebe then, who whispered something to me.

"Shall I tell Harold that you'll be tearing his appendix out the old-fashioned way if he attempts to take your four-square area?" she asks.

I look over my shoulder at Gerald, who seems to want some one-on-one time with her, and then back to Arnold, who smiles at me. "No," I reply, taking Arnold's offered hand again. "You go and have fun—I think I'm pretty occupied myself with other arrangements at present."

"No problem," Phoebe replies, a look of understanding in her eyes as she takes Gerald's hand and walks off with him.

"You didn't have to do that," Arnold says as we move to follow the pair of them out to the playground.

"Do what?" I ask.

"Sacrifice your besting Harold for me," Arnold replies with a smile.

"Dr. Bliss says that I should channel my anger in more productive ways," I reply as we walk through the doors outside.

"What has she suggested?" he asks.

"She says I should write one letter every day to the person who makes me the angriest in my life..."

"Your dad?"

I sigh, going to sit on the bench against the brick wall with him, where we wave to the likes of Nadine, Patty, Stinky, Sid, and all the rest of them, who got Gerald's warning not to give us nonsense about now being in a relationship. "I think that's a given," I reply.

"Have you ever asked him?" Arnold asks. "Directly, I mean—when he's not trying to sell beepers to people..."

"Or distracted by my mom or Olga," I say, sneering when I utter her name, and mentally curse myself for doing so. _Sanction later, Helga_ , I tell myself. "No, and he probably would think the letter was fake or demeaning towards him in character, which, arguably, it is, and then tear it up. Thankfully, I managed to find a way to copy them without him knowing it, just in case I want to show him the damaging affects someday..."

"I just hope that he sees reason—with you and with his business," Arnold replies, shaking his head. "What's the word on that?"

"Beats me—I'm trying to stay out of it," I tell him. "Next year we start middle school, and that's where the fun begins."

"You're not having fun now?" he asks.

I blink, immediately turning to look at him. "No, of course, I—" Immediately, I see that he is smiling. "You are _such_ a Football Head," I mutter, and he leans in and kisses me on the cheek. "But I suppose I can get used to it..."

"Like I can get used to being your boyfriend," he says, placing a gently hand upon my shoulder.

Almost instantly, I feel my skin prickle all over and feel myself melting. " _Ohhh_!" I whisper to myself, and Arnold smiles.

"You know, they sent me the tape of the news reporting on us getting the trip to San Lorenzo," Arnold tells me.

"Really?" I ask. "How was that? Was the news reporter embellishing, as some of them often do?"

"No," he says, "but I did see you leaving my house."

I feel myself flushing then, and know that my face is as bright as a day-old tomato left in the heat. "What?" I ask.

"I saw you leaving my house," he repeats patiently.

I lower my eyes to the bench, the large nails beginning to gather rust around their respective edges, and the planks of wood severely water-damaged and splintering in some places. "Did you?" I say.

"I did," Arnold confirms. "Let's just say it was nothing short of a completely adorable experience."

My eyes shoot up to his, feeling as vulnerable as we did when we were suspended from the makeshift wooden bridge with Gerald. "Adorable?" I ask.

"Yes," Arnold replies. "You were dancing around and clutching your heart like the best thing in the world had happened to you. What did happen...?"

"You touched my shoulder," I reply, knowing that it sounds lame now. "I just felt like a turning point had been reached, you know? Like suddenly you didn't just see me as the bully Helga Pataki, but someone that you could, I don't know, actually care about on a different level..."

"That's all it took?" Arnold wants to know.

"Well, you know as well as I do that I would've done anything to make you notice me," I say, picking at some of the splintered wood on the bench. "All I wanted was you not to hate me..."

"I never hated you, Helga," Arnold replies, briefly covering his hand with mine. "I think it would've helped, had I known the entire story about what was going on in your personal life, but you were never one to open up with anyone. I mean, does Phoebe even know the entire story?"

"The abridged version," I tell him.

Arnold nods. "I get that—I mean, my family life has never been normal, and I doubt it ever will be. I mean, I have a pig named Abner who lives with us practically, even though my grandparents still don't fully grasp that. Even getting him up to my bedroom during the cold nights is difficult..."

"I mean, at least your _parents_ like me..." I say quietly.

"You saved their lives," he says. "Of course they like you."

"That's comforting," I reply. I turn towards the school then, and count to ten in my head. "I like them, too," I say softly, my reply drowned out by the bell ringing, nearly splitting my eardrums in the process.

"Let's get back to class," Arnold says softly, offering his hand again.

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Ever since you moved away for high school, all I can think about is that you're going after your dreams. Miles and Stella bring me comfort, and we often meet up for lunch, dinner, or for a walk to pass the time. I know that you did what was right, and even though things ended between us the way they did, I am pleased that you still want to keep in touch._

 _With my emancipation status granted, it's easy for me to work part-time, and for me to live at the boarding house, the commute to school about the same. Now as I live in your old bedroom, it makes me feel closer to you, even though you're on the other coast. New students come and go at P.S. 118, and now that it is a multi-grade school, some aspects of the curriculum seem to get a little lost in translation, to say the least._

 _Miles and Stella's house is not that far, as I'm sure you remember, and they would want me to tell you that they're all right. They wouldn't want me to tell you that they are struggling, as I admittedly am as well, in our mandatory separation. I know, I know—it was for the best, but it all seems akin to_ The Way We Were. _I know I am no Barbra Streisand, but you are every inch Robert Redford._

 _Junior prom season starts soon, but it doesn't matter to me. I know you will have met someone over there in Rhode Island, and I take comfort in that. I know you will have had to move on from me, as I will eventually from you. However, for the moment, you are, and will always be, my Football Head._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

. . .

Arnold, Phoebe, Gerald, Miles, Stella, and I walk to the halfway point before Phoebe and I become a twosome again, the two of us goodbye to Gerald, Arnold, and his parents respectively until tomorrow. I listen to Phoebe's small talk about Gerald's attentiveness towards her, and I am happy that my being so overbearing over the years never managed to diminish her confidence. Mine had been smashed to pieces a number of times, yet now that I had Arnold by my side, nothing else seemed to matter as much.

We came to Phoebe's house first and I said goodbye before walking up the stairs to my own house close by. Letting myself in, I heard the Game Show Network blaring from the T.V. in the living room, and saw my mother passed out on the couch, snoring loudly. I passed the kitchen, seeing the blender on the counter, knowing that she had had a smoothie. Knowing that Dad wouldn't be home until at least six o'clock, I climbed the stairs towards my bedroom.

One of the doors opened upstairs, and there was a shriek before Olga darted out of her bedroom. "Baby sister!" she screamed, dashing towards me and throwing her arms around me.

"Olga—hey!" I cried out, forcing myself not to push her away from me. "Kindly release me and allow me to breathe properly..."

"Sorry," she said, standing back. "I just can't believe my baby sister is _finally_ in the sixth grade, and dating the boy she keeps a shrine to!"

My eyes snap to hers. "How did you know about that?" I demand.

"I've been cleaning your room during my school vacations for years," she replies in an offhanded tone. "Don't worry—I didn't mention it to Mom and Dad or touch or move anything. I would mainly gather your laundry, make your bed, or vacuum your floors..."

"Then how did you know about the shrine?" I say, having to force my voice to remain calm. "It's in my closet..."

"When I hung up your dresses," she replied simply.

I put my fingers to my temples and rub them. "Okay, okay, Helga old girl... Do not get mad... Breathe... Count to ten..."

"Is that something Dr. Bliss told you about keeping stress at bay?" she wants to know, and seems genuinely curious.

I nod, straightening myself back up and squaring my shoulders. "Yeah," I reply, putting a brave face on. "What are you doing home?"

"I decided to take some online classes this quarter," she tells me. "I wanted to be at home more for you. Let's face it—Daddy seriously needs to step up with you. Now that you're in the sixth grade, you're practically a woman."

"No, no, no," I say, cutting across her quickly. "Mom managed to have that talk with me when she was coherent and, believe me, nothing's happening."

"Oh," Olga replies, looking saddened by that statement. "Well," she says in a breezy tone, getting my backpack off my shoulders and handing it to me, "I did manage to go down to the corner grocers' and pick up a few things for dinner. I baked some cookies for your after-school snack. Why don't you start your homework and I'll bring some up to you, all right?"

I sigh. "Fine, Olga, thanks. Sounds great."

Olga let out a squeal of excitement before heading down the stairs two at a time and managing not to fall.

"Typical perfect sister," I mutter to myself, walking into my bedroom. After making sure my shrine was still in place, I went over to my desk and spread out my math worksheet, my book report, my history assignment, and my science lab write-up, all due the following day. "Oh, Simmons," I say, letting out a sigh and picking up my science lab assignment, knowing that it would probably prove to be the most difficult, despite being in a group with Phoebe, Gerald, and Arnold. "Let's get cracking," I say quietly.

"Is baby sister okay?" Olga says, stepping into my room with a tray, with the grace of a dancer. Upon the tray is a plate of piping hot cookies and a glass of milk. "Do you need any help with that?" she asks.

I sigh, forcing a smile for her. "Thanks," I say as she places the tray down beside me carefully. "No, I think I'm okay. We have instructions for everything and Mr. Simmons was pretty helpful."

"They're actually letting him keep teaching, after what happened with the monkeys in San Lorenzo?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

"He was delusional," I say, waving it away as I find my essay in the bag, which had been severely edited town from the actual experience, as I hadn't wanted my fellow students to know about the depths of my feelings for Arnold. "But at least this managed to pass..." I say lamely.

Olga reaches out for the essay, gasping and clapping her hands. "Baby sister got an 'A'!" she squeals, pulling me into a hug again. "I am so happy, Helga, really! So, so happy!"

"Olga," I say, waiting for her to look at me, and when she does, I do my best to make my tone as civil as possible. "Could you not call me that anymore?" I ask her carefully. "Just 'Helga' is fine, really."

"Of course bab—Helga," Olga says with a smile. "I didn't know it bothered you. I shall strive not to say it any longer."

"Why don't you go and practice the piano or something?" I ask, picking up one of the cookies and dunking it in milk. "Maybe you'll wake up Mom enough so that she'll listen to you."

"That's a good idea," Olga says, walking towards my bedroom door. "Maybe I'll play _The Minute Waltz_ by Chopin," she muses to herself as she leaves my room and traipses down the hall.

I shake my head, finding that I'm smiling as I chew my cookie, before I turn back to look at the science lab worksheet. "You are going to be the death of me, I know it," I say, picking up my pencil.

. . .

 _Dear Helga,_

 _I also regret how we ended things, and yet this whole keeping the communication track open was a good idea—the mature thing to do. I'm glad that you're keeping in touch with my parents—you risked your life to save them, after all, and I know they are appreciative about your spending time with them. Of course, I won't tell them that you mentioned how much they missed me—they really don't need to hear that; even I can understand that._

 _This co-ed boarding school is definitely a new experience for me. Winning that contest at the end of eighth grade...it was quite a game-changer. Even though Gerald says you didn't, I swear that maybe you had something to do with it. Of course, I know you well enough that I couldn't ask you that question directly, unless we were face-to-face. Ever since San Lorenzo, it became easier and easier to read you like a book, which was one of the many things I loved about you. It's hard—this separation—but who knows? Maybe everyone's dreams will come true, and the outcome could be, maybe, real._

 _It's been two years since I moved to New York—man, almost two and a half. It's hard to believe that when we said goodbye at the airport when we were fourteen that it would be the last time. Your letters help, and I'd never ask you to stop writing them—maybe include one of your poems next time. I must admit, the one about me making your girlhood tremble had to have been my favorite. Were you really nine when you wrote that?_

 _I want to go back to Hillwood and see everybody—not kidding; I miss everyone, Gerald, Patty, Phoebe, Harold...everyone. Especially you. When we said goodbye at fourteen, I thought that my parents would at least want to come out here, or that I could arrange a time to come and see home. It's not that easy; this program is so intense that even carving out some time to write this puts a dent in my day. But it's worth it, because this method of communication is one of my last links to home—to you—and I'm not ready to give that up either._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

 _P.S. To answer your question—even though it was hinted at, yet not posed—no. I have not found someone romantically to occupy my time. I think that ship has sailed. If you can, come to New York for Christmas—I think it would be great to talk face-to-face._

. . .

The second day of school begins as the first did, except I don't make Arnold feel badly for touching me in public. Rather, I take him proudly by the hand and walk with him towards the school. This morning, Miles and Stella do not walk with us, and Arnold tells me that they will be walking him home. He says that he told them last night that they could pick one.

"Why would you do that?" I ask, perplexed. "You went without them for so long. I mean... I know I shouldn't even have an opinion here, but... They're still your parents, who we all risked our lives for..."

Arnold smiles. "Yeah, I know," he replies, squeezing my hand as we head up the stairs of the school. "But I want _some_ time for my friends...and for you."

I smile at that. "Well, that means a lot, but I don't want us taking you away from them..."

"There's no us vs. them," Arnold says gently. "You're my girlfriend, Gerald is my best friend, and they're my parents. You're all top-priority to me, Helga, and nothing will ever change that."

I find that we are hesitating just outside the double doors of the school, so I reach out to open them. "I know; I understand," I say quietly as we walk down the hallway. "Dr. Bliss says that I shouldn't attempt to prioritize myself, now that we're together. I don't want to come off as selfish and have you resent me, or your parents dislike me."

"Not gonna happen," Arnold tells me, squeezing my hand before he releases it and opens his locker before placing his heavy textbooks into it. "You would think that they would come up with an alternative method for these," he says, idly picking at one of the frayed covers.

"Rhonda's found one," I reply, peeking over at her. "Look—she's likely downloading all of our assigned books onto her Kindle right now. I'll bet her Dad has a feed into the company, and intelligence to figure out what Simmons may be thinking of teaching next..."

"Wouldn't be the first time a rich kid attempted to get ahead in life via electronic devices," Arnold says quietly. "Do you know if she's begun uploaded makeup tutorials yet?"

"I think her term for it is 'natural beauty'," I reply, putting on a deep voice and doing air quotes. "And I think that she finds those things terrible because they, according to her, exist only to personify one opinion of what beauty is."

"That's beautiful," Arnold says, grinning at me and slamming his locker shut. "I just know you're going to be a writer someday."

"Of laws, maybe," I say, smiling back at him. "I have a mind to be President of the United States, you know."

"Would I be 'First Husband'?" Arnold asks.

Immediately, I flush and look away. "Maybe," I reply, sounding like I had leather for a tongue. "That may or may not have come up somewhere in my subconscious in the distant, distant past..."

"Hope it's not too far," he says quietly, taking my hand again as we proceed to walk to Simmons's class. "I like where this is going, and I don't want there to be anything but honesty between us, Helga. I don't want you to feel like you need to hide anything from me anymore."

I turn back to face him, just before we round the corner to Simmons. "I would not attempt to do so deliberately," I say, smiling at him.

Arnold smiles. "I'm glad," he replies, and we slowly begin our trek to our classroom for the second day of sixth grade.


	2. Leapt Without Looking

Chapter Two: Leapt Without Looking

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Everyone always says, "look before you leap" and I'm seriously considering re-writing the history books and delving into what everyone really means on the subject itself. As I look back on all our years together, really considering where it all began, I would have to say in preschool—I never told you that before; I wish I had, but I didn't, so here it goes._

 _You remember me talking about my "parents" not acknowledging me and only listening to Olga playing piano, and that I had to walk in the rain without a coat. A stray dog stole my lunch—did you know that? He was probably in worse shape than I was but, on top of everything else, it just made it worse. By that time, I was completely covered in rain and mud, and when I walked down that rain-slicked street, and came face-to-face with you for the first time, I found I could barely form a coherent sentence. Not only did you shield me from the rain with your umbrella, but you didn't comment on the fact that I was covered in wet, sticky mud. Instead, you said you liked my bow because it was pink like my pants. That's where it all began Arnold, honestly._

 _I'm not faulting you for going to New York—I would never do that. The University of Barnard's Architecture Department is so fortunate to have you. I love that they permit you to still complete your high school education. I wish I could do mine in a timelier manner, and yet all of it seems like complete nonsense at the end of the day, when you get right down to it. At this point, the "right of passage" that everyone speaks of is using the iPads or Tablets in the classroom instead of a hunk of a tree and a pencil. Like Rhonda, we all have to adjust ever so slightly when it comes to our education and sacrifices, although they should be few and far between, are evident._

 _To answer your question about coming to New York for Christmas... Honestly, Arnold, I'd love to; I miss you terribly but I can't. Not only do I not have the money for something like that right now, but I also have bills to pay. I had to survive three weeks on just instant ramen—living the college dream with the high school schedule. And during the holidays at the diner, we make time and a half, and I can't pass that up. This was my choice, moving out and gaining employment and getting away from my family, while going to New York was yours. Even though I wish we didn't have to be apart, I also knew that even attempting to stay in a relationship would prove to be too difficult. As I've said before, we were only fourteen when you left, and the notion that we could even try to keep it up likely would have ended in a double heartbreak._

 _Letting you go is likely the hardest decision I had to make, but it had to be done because I could stand in the way of you and your dreams. I also think that_

 _Ignore that last part, Arnold, and don't you dare try to hold it up to the light to try and decipher it. The mystery is over, and so must we be._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

. . .

I walked to school with Phoebe that day in November, exactly a week before Thanksgiving, not looking forward to another year of my mother falling asleep in the mashed potatoes, burning the turkey, Olga crying, and my father screaming that nothing ever got done correctly during the holidays in the Pataki house. My coat was buttoned up against the wind, my hair tucked into a hat as we walked along towards the corner, where we met with Arnold and Gerald as always. Gerald came forward and took Phoebe by the hand, and I took Arnold's offered gloved hand as we crossed the street.

"How are your holiday preparations going?" he asked.

I sigh. "No idea. No shopping has been done, and with Olga fleeing the house after just a few days of doing college online..." I shrug. "I wouldn't be surprised if she ends up married and having a baby in the span of six months."

"You really think she's ready for that?"

I shrug my shoulders, making sure not to let go of Arnold's hands. "Well, she _does_ have the baby-talk down," I reply, giving him a sly smile as we near the steps of the school. "She only stopped calling me 'baby sister' for a week before she lapsed back into it. Thankfully, I only had to deal with it for another three days before she up and left."

"Has she kept in touch?" he wants to know.

I shake my head. "Not a peep."

"And you don't know where she is?" he presses.

I sighed. "I assume back at her dorm on campus. There's no law about the students not living there, as long as they're taking classes and their tuition is payed. I just hope she's safe," I say, surprised at my maturity in saying so. "I know she couldn't do anything to terribly stupid—she does get straight A's..."

" _You_ get straight A's," Arnold said, opening the doors for us and stepping inside the school, heated on a cool day like this.

"So do you," I put in as we near our lockers. "It's not difficult, especially for someone like Simmons as our teacher... But, hey, there's always one thing that people have issues with..." I say, taking my hand from Arnold's and putting my coat, hat, and gloves into my locker. "What's yours?"

"Spanish," Arnold replies, grinning at me and taking off his wintertime clothes and putting them away. "Yours?"

"Science," I admit, "some of the terminology annoys me. Why can't some scientists just say what they mean instead of going on a big, long rant?"

"Because maybe that's how they got money way back when—by publishing their theories," Arnold tells me simply, gathering his books and shutting his locker. "I mean, actually writing down your thoughts long-hand as they filled your mind, without a typewriter or computer to help you out..." He shakes his head, thinking about it as I take out my necessary books. "I don't think I'll ever be something like a scientist..."

"You don't have to be one," I say, shutting my locker and turning around to smile at him. "I just want you to be happy."

"You, too," Arnold replies, touched. "Speaking of, do you just not want to go home for Thanksgiving?"

"It's Thanksgiving," I say, trying not to laugh. "We get a day off from school, so we're already home."

"No, no," Arnold says quickly as we walk down the hallway. "I meant, do you just want to come to my house? My parents and grandparents say that it's okay. I mean, only if you _want_ to come..."

I force myself to keep my eyes from filling with tears. "Of course," I say, and my mind wanders to holding hands with Arnold from under the table. "Can I bring anything?" I ask.

"As my grandma would say—yourself and an empty stomach," he replies, taking my hand again as we turn the corner. "You sure your parents won't mind?"

I shake my head. "Positive," I reply. "I'll just slip out the front door when my dad is arguing about business and my mom is watching T.V. or something..."

"It's really that easy?"

I nod. "It really is. I snuck into your house twice in the fourth grade," I say rather offhandedly, peeking at him for a reaction.

"You what?" he asks, obviously attempting to be serious when in fact he looks as if he would laugh as he stops dead. "Are you kidding?"

I shake my head. "No," I reply. "That grandfather clock of yours is just a little cramped, if I'm being honest here..."

Arnold laughs. "I'll call the company, ask them to make an adjustment," he jokes with a grin as we walk into class together.

. . .

Slipping out of the house the following week for Thanksgiving proved easier than I'd initially expected. With Olga still MIA and not trying to contact any of us, I merely opened the front door at noon and closed and locked it behind me. I remembered Dad leaving the house five hours before to do goodness knows what and my mother had woken up an hour later, but had inevitably passed out on the couch after her morning smoothie. I vaguely heard Steve Harvey's voice as I passed the living room, co-mingling with the sound of my mother's snoring and found that, for the first time, I truly felt sorry for her. It's not like she had made any decisions in how to run her life, and clearly she was suffering from some kind of unhappiness or other. I considered asking her to come to therapy at some point, but knew that unless I arranged everything and made sure that everything was in order that day, she wouldn't make it.

I walked down the street and the few blocks to Arnold's, just as it began to rain, and I pulled my hood up and over my head. It was an old one of Olga's, which finally fit me, and, thankfully, due to her perfectionist exterior, my sister's hand-me-downs weren't as terrible as one might expect. Threadbare and tattered it was not, although the wind whistling in my ears and the rain sloshing around in the gutters in the streets—which I attempted to stay away from—did not help matters in the slightest. In fact, it reminded me of that darkened day when I took myself to preschool, the yelping stray dog who stole my lunch always at the back of my thoughts, his hungry and aggressive barks still echoing in my ears.

I came to the final block and looked up, the boarding house just across the street from me, and I crossed the street when no cars drove by. Stepping up to the house, I knocked on the door almost tentatively, and was relieved when Arnold answered it, although I had to dart out of the way as Abner, a dog, and a series of cats ran out from the door. I felt myself draw back almost in shock, but Arnold's smile warmed me enough, as well as his offered hand, to head inside. I nearly gasped when he took my coat from me, and I stowed the gloves into the pockets quickly and hesitated as I stood there.

"Wow—you look great!" Arnold commented.

I shook my head. "Just something that used to belong to Olga," I say, shrugging my shoulders. It was a simple black turtle-neck with a sleeveless down wool dress worn over it, along with black tights and Mary Jane shoes. "I didn't want to overdress or underdress..."

"You look great, really," he assured me with a heartwarming smile, stepping forward and kissing me.

It took all I could for me not to visibly react, and I failed miserably. " _Ohhh_!" I said, quickly snapping out of it. "I... Um, does anyone need any help?" I ask, and step an appropriate distance away, and analyzing the hall carpet beneath my feet, trying to ignore the warmth coming forth from my cheeks.

"Helga? Is that you?" asks a voice from the dining room, and Arnold's mother enters the hallway. "It's always so good to see you," she says with a smile as she steps forward, pulling me into a hug. She pulls back after a moment to look at me, her brown hair streaked elegantly with silver and her lips colored red. "Why don't you come and help me set the table?"

"Sure, no problem," I say, turning around to smile at Arnold as Mrs. Shortman puts an arm around my shoulder and leads me back to the dining room. "Listen, it was really nice of you and Mr. Shortman to invite me," I say, stepping towards the table as she goes into the china cabinet.

Mrs. Shortman turns around and smiles at me as she bends towards one of the drawers, taking out a tablecloth. "Think nothing of it, Helga," she replies. "You saved our lives. As far as I'm concerned, you're always welcome, anytime, rain or shine. Besides, our son loves you."

I feel my cheeks heat for the second time that day. "Well, that's very sweet," I say softly, lowering my eyes, running my hand along the back of the chair I had suddenly gripped. "I suppose you know by now how I feel. After keeping it bottled up for so long I kind of screamed it at him when he saved the neighborhood, and then again on the crow's nest of Lasombra's boat..."

Stella smiles as she tosses the tablecloth to the other end of the table, which I manage to catch. "I knew there had to be something between you in San Lorenzo, even before Miles, Gerald, and I happened upon your little moment together," she says with a smile. "Was that...?" she asks, not even having to complete the sentence, her eyes speaking volumes.

I bite my lip, focusing on straightening the tablecloth. "The first one he was receptive of, yes," I reply. "We were in _Romeo and Juliet_ in the fourth grade, and had the title roles, so that was one. We appeared on _Babewatch_ after winning a sand castle competition during spring break, and that was another—of course, the cover story is that I'm giving him CPR while on camera," I say softly. "And then there was when I told Arnold that I...that I...loved him," I said softly. "Of course, I later said it was the heat of the moment and he seemed...I don't know...almost happy... I think it was too much too soon..."

"Well, I think that everything happened the way it's supposed to," Stella replies, inhaling the scent of the dinner cooking. "Straighten out the tablecloth, would you, Helga?" she asked, moving towards the kitchen. "I've got to help Gertrude with the dinner, and then I'll be out in a moment with the china, silver, and candles. Think you can handle the tablecloth?"

I nod, making sure it was patted down flat without any wrinkles. "No problem, Mrs. Shortman."

She grins. "Thank you, Helga," she replies, disappearing into the kitchen.

. . .

 _Dear Helga,_

 _I'm so sorry that I neglected to take your finances into question—I just didn't think that you would be on your own like me. Your family is so close, yet unwilling to help, and mine is so far, willing to help whenever possible. It's unfair that we were born to two totally different families—family should always appreciate one another and love one another, and I'm sorry yours did apparently not._

 _Have you heard from Olga? Ever since she got married a few years ago, you spoke of her less and less. I think the last time she was mentioned was on our way to the airport, before our final goodbye. You mentioned that she was pregnant, and pretty far along, with a ring on her finger. You also mentioned that she hadn't come home, due to the fact that you believed that your family wouldn't have approved of her choice of husband. Heaven forbid what would've happened if you would one day marry me—your father would never forgive you for having football-headed children; he said so._

 _I know we'll be seventeen in a matter of months, and our senior year is just around the corner, and yet I've never felt so alone. Nobody can replace anybody from Hillwood, and although I've tried making friends—which is easy, due to all the classes I'm taking—I find I have nothing in common with anyone, other than our academic achievements or interests. So many of them grew up together, like the old gang, and there's that feeling of being on the outside looking in. As the last two major holidays of the year approach, and I know that, yet again, I cannot go home, I really consider my loneliness and wonder if all of this was worth it._

 _I'm starting to think it isn't. I'm starting to think that my dream of becoming an architect with their own firm could have been done at a slower pace. My dream was that, if we had to move for college, we would have done so together, not separately, and that we could have continued communication despite our respective schedules, no matter how conflicting they proved to be. The year we didn't speak was a torment, and I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for not attempting to reach out sooner._

 _However, your last words to me were, "And don't come back before you make something of yourself, Football Head." I guess, even now, I don't want to disappoint you. Even though I chose New York at fourteen, Helga, sixteen-year-old me thinks I chose wrong._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

. . .

The illustrious illusion of sixth grade continues steadily, where everyone mistakes themselves for being grown up, and a cut above the rest. However, as the Christmas holidays approach, happen, and then pass, I wonder how long this untold perfection will truly last. Arnold seems eager to keep our relationship going, as am I, and I wonder then if this is merely a childhood infatuation. However, I can quickly answer that question, whilst lying on my back on my bed, willing for sleep to come.

"It's can't be a childhood infatuation, old girl," I tell myself quietly. "It can't be one, because you were never a child."

"You seem to want to rationalize the fact that you feel as if you are no longer a child, when in fact, it's such a tragic statement," Dr. Bliss says at one of our many sessions, smack dab at the end of December.

"Not 'no longer'," I amend quietly, my hands folded across my stomach as I am lying back on the couch. "I _was_ never a child, Dr. Bliss," I explain emphatically as I turn to face her. "I was picking myself up and scraping off the mud myself from the time I was four."

"And from when you were born up until that point?" she asks.

I shrug my shoulders. "Can't remember it," I say quickly, too quickly, knowing full well that that statement is not true.

"Is that it?" she asks gently, leaning forward. "Or is it maybe that you don't want to remember it, because it was too dramatic?"

"Traumatic is more like it," I mutter, sitting up. "All I know is, I'm lucky to be alive, given how my parents treat me now..."

"What makes you think that?" she asks, automatically scrawling down everything I say in her doctor's notebook—full of doctor's jargon, that notebook. "Do you have anything to base it on?"

"It's a miracle I'm alive because of how my parents act on a daily basis," I reply, pulling my knees up to my chest. "I'd be surprised if they went to...I don't know, Barbados or something, and left me alone for a week."

"Had they done that, surely authorities would have been called," Dr. Bliss replies, obviously trying not to laugh.

"Why?" I ask.

"To leave a child—an infant, rather—alone for a significant period of time is a federal crime," Dr. Bliss explains patiently. "Neighbors would have likely heard you crying if you were hungry or dirty and, therefore, authorities would have been called to, in a sense, rescue you."

"What if I was rescued?" I ask, my voice ringing hollow. "What if I was rescued a long time ago, and now these are the replacement parents that didn't want me in the first place, after already having one perfect child?"

"Helga," Dr. Bliss says patiently, "you've shown me pictures of your family. I think it's highly unlikely, despite all the negativity you've faced on their behalf and at their hands, that they are not biologically related to you."

"That figures," I reply, thumping back onto the couch. "I couldn't have been a princess in some far-off land..."

"Well, who knows? Maybe you are," Dr. Bliss says comfortingly. "But it's probably a good thing that you're not, now that you have Arnold in your life."

"Arnold," I say, the word escaping my lips like a prayer. "He's really a salvation, doctor, not kidding."

"Well, after that summer you had, I'm not surprised Arnold finally saw through your tough exterior and found out who you really are as a person," she says. "I'm glad that the two of you came to an understanding."

"I never thought I'd actually call Arnold Shortman my boyfriend," I muse, and wonder if this is even a good thing to talk about, given the fact that my home life will likely never be resolved.

"You never told me his last name," Dr. Bliss says as I return to a standard sitting position. "It's nice to finally have a full name to put to the face."

"I didn't?" I ask, mulling it over briefly in my mind as I consider it. "Weird. I'll do better about that from now on."

"So, how are things going with him?" Dr. Bliss asks. "Last time you were here, you said you'd figured out what to buy him for Christmas?"

I nod. "Yeah—I've been saving for weeks. I just hope he'll like it."

Dr. Bliss smiles. "From what I can see it's a gift from the heart," she says, checking her watch. "And I can't wait to hear about it in the new year," she goes on, getting to her feet. "But our sixty minutes is up."

"Already?" I ask, as I did after every session, forcing myself to my feet and gathering my coat, hat, gloves, and earmuffs from the peg by the door. "You'll still be here to talk next year?" I ask.

Dr. Bliss places a hand on my shoulder. "As long as there are kids in Hillwood that have need of my services, I'll be here."

I throw my arms around her then. "Thank you, Dr. Bliss," I say, stepping through the opened door and hastily putting on my winter clothes. As I head outside, a smile comes to my lips when I see Arnold leaning up against a frozen telephone poll, nose in a comic. "And just what do you think you're doing, Football Head?" I ask him gently, a giggle escaping my lips and turning to fog in the air.

Arnold looks up as the snow falls around us. "Waiting for someone important," he replies, rolling up the comic and placing it into his pocket, before offering a hand to me. "Have time for a hot chocolate?" he asks.

"I always have time for you," I reply.

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _I don't want you to ever tell me that you regret your decision of moving to New York, or that you don't want to disappoint me. You should have moved to New York for you, and only for you, not because of your parents' expectations or risking not making me happy. You know as well as I do that I miss you and that I wish every day that you were back, but Dr. Bliss told me that I had to learn to be less selfish in my life and if that meant letting you go, I could do that._

 _I was cleaning up in the apartment today—it's my New Year's resolution to clean my place out more than ever before—and found a box from our fourth to seventh grade years. I think, once our trip from San Lorenzo ended, those were some of the happiest years of my life. From ages ten to twelve, I was truly happy, because I had you and life didn't seem as bleak as it truly was. I actually kept one of your blue hats; I think its probably only big enough for a cat or small dog to wear now. I also found some old assignments from Simmons classes, plus some poetry work that I never let you see, because even it was too embarrassing._

 _There was actually something inside that said, "Do Not Open Until Eighteenth Birthday", and its in your fourteen-year-old handwriting. What have you done, Arnold Shortman, and why do I have to wait until I'm eighteen? Are there just some things in life that I'll never understand? And why do I have to wait another year and eight months to do it? You're still testing me, Football Head; on the opposite end of the country, and you're testing me._

 _I remember a session I had with Dr. Bliss, that first Christmas we were together, and I was telling her all about the present I got you that year. I don't think I even told her what it was... Do you remember what I got you? It was a sweater that I knitted myself, made deliberately large so that you could wear it for years. I remember you wore it the day you left, and you didn't have to roll up the sleeves anymore—it was comical to me. Do you still have the sweater, or did it finally end up in the rag bag? If you still have it, I want to know—did you ever find the secret compartment on the inside? If you haven't, then you have a surprise coming, just in time for the holidays._

 _I also got you another surprise for Christmas—one where I had to give up the gift I wanted the most, but I knew it would ensure your happiness, so I did. You don't need to know what it was; just know that it was done in good faith. You might say I was a guardian angel to you that Christmas. All I know is, at the end of the day, it was worth it to make you happy._

 _That's all I ever wanted for you was to be happy; I knew that if you stayed in Hillwood, just for me, that you could have come to resent me, and I didn't want that. I didn't want you to give up your dreams for me, and besides, we were fourteen. There was no way to know if what we had was the long-lasting love that people want to die for. I don't want to die, Arnold—not yet. And when I do die, I know that I'll have a different surname, because I don't want to be attached to the Pataki family forever. I mean, who knows? Maybe we'll share a surname one day, but once that bridge is crossed, there's no going back._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

. . .

The bell rings on that final day of sixth grade and Harold gets on top of his desk and slams his fists into his chest gorilla style. It almost makes me sorry that I took a Mr. Fudgy bar from him at lunch back in the fourth grade. It is nice to know that wearing layers is not mandatory for the next three months, and I am fully prepared for the summer ahead. As Arnold and I troop out of class to empty our lockers for the last time as eleven-year-olds, he flashes me a smile.

"What are your plans for the summer?" he asks.

"Reading, a lot," I reply, ruefully. "I never really made summer plans. Phoebe would go away with her family so much, and you know my situation with my family, so there was really no point to making plans."

"My parents are going back to San Lorenzo for a goodwill mission to check on the Green-Eyed People," Arnold replies, "and I'm going with them."

I force myself not to gasp and manage to succeed; I didn't like the way their princess had looked at Arnold, and who knew if he would find her sufficiently more attractive than I was... "Promise to write me when you're away?" I ask, my voice higher than usual.

Arnold grins. "Why would I write you when you're coming with us?" he asks, and I feel myself gasp this time.

"You'd better not be lying, Arnold," I say.

Arnold laughs. "Not lying—my folks cleared it with yours last week. It was supposed to be a surprise."

I let out a gasp and throw my arms around him. "We'll have so much fun!" I cry out then, pulling back. "Is it just us then?"

"You would think so," Gerald replies, coming up behind Arnold.

"Gerald is correct, Helga," Phoebe says, her hand clasped in his. "Mr. and Mrs. Shortman have considerately invited us to join you all on your trip to San Lorenzo as well."

"You all knew?" I demand, my eyes sliding to Arnold.

Arnold shrugs and grins. "It was a surprise," he says.

I laugh then, it being cut off midway as Arnold leans in to kiss me. "You are _such_ a Football Head," I mutter, grinning at him nonetheless. "Just make sure we don't get lost in the jungle again. I can only take so much running around and away from the bad guys."

"Yeah, and no tracking devices," Gerald tells Arnold.

Phoebe laughs. "I think this will be a better trip all-around."

Arnold nods, taking my hand in his. "Yeah, it will, especially now that things are out in the open..."

I nod back at him. "You're right. Ignorance is not always bliss."

"Well, let's go!" Gerald says. "We only have a few hours to pack."

"You're all sleeping over at my house," Arnold says breathlessly as we dash out of the school. "We meet at my place in two hours."

"Got it," I say, squeezing Arnold's hand back as we run along the sun-splashed sidewalk in the same direction, before running down with Phoebe, and then solo, on to my house, anxious for the summer ahead.


	3. As the Clouds Roll By

Chapter Three: As the Clouds Roll By

Once the ceremony to welcome us back to San Lorenzo had begun, everyone gathered into their houses to start the preparations. I walked towards the pillars where I'd helped in saving the town, my eyes scanning the artwork along the walls, running my hands along them. Arnold, Gerald, Phoebe, and Mr. and Mrs. Shortman had gone to our rooms during the trip to get everything settled, leaving me to wander around the place on my own.

I raised my hand up to where my locket had been placed, and where I'd attempted to fetch it back after the cure had been disbursed throughout the town. I placed my hand upon the wall, turning around and looking at the space provided. I then allowed myself to remember what had transpired here, nearly a year ago, where Arnold had, in not so many words, admitted his feelings for me. I just remembered him offering his hands and, while trying not to practically scream that my goal had finally seemed to have been met, taking them, and not even having to step forward at all—

"You're remembering our defining moment?"

I look up then, turning to see Arnold standing there, a smile on his lips. "No, I wasn't," I say quickly, too quickly. "That is to say that I...I remember it fondly, quite fondly, as a matter of fact..."

Arnold steps forward then, looking up at where he and I had secured my locket with a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Your heart is purer than you know, Helga," he tells me then, taking me by the hand.

I feel myself flush deeply. "Thank you, Arnold..."

"I mean it," he replies, turning to me. "Nobody who wasn't loyal or brave or not pure of heart would have put their life on the line to save my parents like that. We could have died, right as we were suspended by that makeshift bridge, Helga, or Lasombra could have done us in."

"But he didn't," I say.

"He didn't," Arnold agrees, "and I'm glad."

"Are you?" I ask, peeking at him.

Arnold nods. "Of course I'm glad. If he'd done us all in, then we wouldn't have solved the mystery of my parents, or woken up the rest of the Green-Eyed people, and I wouldn't have known that you...loved me."

"I couldn't help but love you," I reply. "You're the only one that ever showed me any form of kindness throughout my life. All I could think of was loving you, in that moment, and every moment since, when all I could think about was telling you my secret feelings and...grabbing you and kissing you..." I say, forcing a laugh to escape my throat. "I guess it was all pretty sudden..."

"You attempted to convince me that it was all the heat of the moment," Arnold puts in, a grin on his face.

"Well, you believed me, didn't you?" I ask.

Arnold laughs. "Of course I didn't," he replies. "I just thought that you told me at a moment when you weren't prepared to do so. I just figured that you needed more time to think about it."

I sighed. "I guess it was that, and part of me thought that there was no way that you could ever...like me...or...love me..."

Arnold sighs, turning to face me then, and I look over my shoulder at him. "You did it all, Helga. Of course you know how I feel," he says, pulling me by my hands towards him, where he kisses me in the exact spot we had a year ago.

I felt my foot going up in the air as it had done before, curling upwards at the notion that it was happening yet again, and nothing would have ever ruined this moment—

"Mmm, mmm, _mmm_!" we heard from behind us then, and, breaking apart, both our faces red, we spotted Gerald standing there with Phoebe, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Shortman. "Now I've _seriously_ seen everything!" he declares.

Arnold peeks over at me. "Maybe we should get out of here..."

"What do you suggest?" I whisper back.

"How about a walk?" he asks. "I'm sure the stone bridge looks incredible in the sunlight..."

"Sounds good to me," I reply, taking his offered hand and making our way away from there.

. . .

It was so hard to believe that for the last three months had been spent entirely in Central America, and we hadn't been chased by a madman masquerading as a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Shortman's. The Green-Eyed people were pleased to see us, but I could sense some disappointment in the princess as she regarded me and Arnold holding hands as we approached their kingdom. The chanting began almost immediately as we arrived, the children in their animal skins greeting us and even attempting to put Arnold in that throne again, but he declined, preferring instead to walk with me as we entered the kingdom.

It all became a harsh reality when, twelve weeks later, we were already heading back to the airport, back to Hillwood. _Twelve-years-old and in the seventh grade, old girl_ , I thought to myself. _And not only that, but Arnold-Arnold-Arnold is finally your boyfriend_... _not bad_. I didn't even have to threaten the Green-Eyed princess with Old Betsy, or the Five Avengers once during the entire trip. I supposed that she thought that hand-holding was a sacred thing in our culture, and she had managed to keep her distance, thankfully.

Arnold, Gerald, Phoebe, and I learned upon our return to Hillwood via a letter from the school district that P.S. 118 had tacked on grades seven and eight, so we would not need to change schools. It was a relief, because I doubt my parents would even attempt to remember that I would need a new school. Now, they had been granted a two-year reprieve, and at least they seemed somewhat grateful that I had returned home in one piece. I trudged up the stairs to find that Olga's old bedroom landline had been placed in my bedroom, and I smiled to myself, knowing that I could now speak to Arnold without hanging out in the hallway.

After unpacking, I threw myself down onto the bed; I knew I could not allow jet-lag to set in, and instead decided to take a shower. After venturing into the bathroom with my bag of toiletries to disperse throughout the bathroom, and as I adjusted the water temperature, I wondered what the following week would bring, when Arnold, Gerald, Phoebe, and the rest of the gang would formally begin our seventh-grade year. Arnold would be thirteen at the beginning of our second month of school, as I would be just before it became spring.

I came to the direct conclusion, standing there beneath the stream of hot water as I washed the last of our second trip of San Lorenzo down the drain, that the fooling around had to come to an end. I knew then that if Arnold and I weren't a couple now, I'd be marching up to school the following week and telling him how I really felt then. It hadn't been easy the first time, due to me doing most of the talking; nor had it been easy the second time, when Arnold wasn't listening. They say, 'third times the charm', and they were certainly correct, despite the fact that for the beginning of his speech, Arnold was being unfailingly honest with me, which was something I'd always valued about him.

. . .

 _Dear Helga,_

 _As soon as I opened your letter, I went to the closet where the sweater was hanging and looked it over. Originally not finding anything, I became convinced that you were playing tricks on me and hung it back up, although what I initially intended to do was throw it across the room. However, I finally began approaching the situation like you would have, by going outside the box—or, rather, the sweater—and searched for the surprise on the inside-out layer. I never noticed before how you made the bottom deliberately thicker, and as I ran my hand along it, I found I detected something hard beneath the fabric, and something edged further down, and something curved even further. I don't know how I missed these, but then I realized—after slicing it—that you put cotton inside. I found your gifts to me, and they cheered me up immensely just before the holidays, and I can't thank you enough for each and every one of them._

 _The first thing I pulled out from that piece of cotton heaven was a commemorative coin you and I got, four weeks before I left, and two weeks before we found out I won the contest in New York. I remember you saying you'd get one as a joke, and then when I saw that picture of us from The Tunnel of Love, it brought back so many memories. That was our penultimate kiss before I left; that was the week before you got sick and then when you were recovered, I got news about my moving to New York. I remember the look of devastation on your face that you tried so hard to hide, and I didn't call attention to it because I was stupid and selfish and no matter how many times I say, 'I'm sorry', I know I can never truly be forgiven. I remember me begging you to kiss me at the airport, and you said that it was a goodbye kiss and then you kissed me and left me at airport security, and, even now, I cannot blame you._

 _The second thing I pulled out was a small photograph taken from a polaroid camera from a party at Rhonda's house to celebrate our safe homecoming from San Lorenzo. You looked so happy to be sitting with me on their poorly-pattered couch, and I remember how much simpler things were back then. You and I were just getting to know the other sides of each other, and we were getting along really well. Nobody was giving us a hard time, funnily enough, and I remember Rhonda running around the party, snapping photos like she usually did, except this time with an old disposable camera. I think she said something like, 'It's so old that it's new and, therefore, it's in!' I'll never fully understand Rhonda's philosophy when it came to pop culture, but I know I'll never forget the moment when I knew the camera was going to flash, and me leaning in and kissing your cheek, your face caught between happiness and shock._

 _The final thing I pulled out brought every memory in the book back, because I know you had this for a long time, and how freely you sacrificed it in San Lorenzo, that it can't be right for me to keep it. Its glass was still intact but, of course, the picture was still shredded. I never did ask you how that happened—did a stray dog remove the glass and get to it? I'm sure, at the time, you felt justified in tearing it up, and I know it was a long time ago because I remember you handing it over after you'd torn it. Your locket saved my parents' lives, Helga, and brought you through all those years of pain when I was too silly to notice that you were in love with me._

 _I know even you don't like a root canal, Helga, but somehow, after all this time, you may prefer me to one just a little. Even after all we've been through, I know that this can't be the end for us, can it? With you pining away for so long, and with me taking forever to figure myself out, I know that it wasn't easy, but it was saving the lives of others that brought us together, and now, despite the fact that the picture is, I know I'm not yet fully prepared for us to be torn apart._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

. . .

In the days that followed, I did my best to sort through the boxes of Olga's hand-me-downs to figure out some possible new spins on my outfit. Then again, the outfit that I wore typically was my standard now, so it wasn't like I could just go and change it after so long. However, I decided to get a little adventurous and looked up ways to sew things myself, which brought me the helpful suggestion from Rhonda to consider YouTube tutorials. Taking my pink dress, I cut it down to a suitable shirt length, adding the striped area to the bottom and making it flair out ever so slightly. Then I found a pair of jean capris that had belonged to Olga, which fit me perfectly, and paired them with my new shirt.

Then, came the inevitable—to shed the ultimate image of my father from my face, literally. I went shopping and found some wax, and, when I went home that day, went into my bathroom and shut the door behind me. Using yet another YouTube tutorial about 'safe, in-home waxing', I watched it carefully as I placed the kit on top of the sink. I was easily able to measure the halfway point and then I put the wax onto the center line. Placing the strip on top, I clenched my teeth but not so much that my forehead clenched—the last thing I needed was to lose an eye. And then, counting to ten in my head, I pulled.

Needless to say, it was one of the most painful experiences of my life, but I managed to get the worst of it off in one pull. Two or three smaller pulls took care of the rest of it, and, once I experimented, I found that I could successfully raise either eyebrow at will. I placed the ready-made ice pack in the direct center of my forehead, not wanting to go to school the following day with added redness. Of course, it was not the only treatment I was subjecting myself to in the next twenty-four hours; not by a longshot.

The next morning, I woke up early and washed my hair and combed it so that it lay down my back. Next, I took Olga's old hairdryer and blow-dried my hair, before taking Olga's straightener and straightened it down my back. Following that, I took out the lip gloss I'd bought and put it on before going back into my bedroom and putting on my new outfit. Once that was done, it was nearly time to leave the house, so I went downstairs to grab my lunch—packed the night before and hidden to make sure it wasn't inadvertently swiped—and a cereal bar for breakfast. My mother was already passed out on the couch, and Dad had already left for work; ever since the beeper business had gone completely under, I didn't know what he was doing as a job, and I didn't ask.

My new sandals thankfully didn't squeak on the floor as I walked out of the house, locking the door behind me. I walked down the stairs and down the block, meeting Phoebe as we always did on our walk to school, before we walked down the street and to the corner. Phoebe commented positively on my appearance and, while thanking her, I really wanted to know how Arnold would feel about it. Finally, we got to the corner completely and I could just see Arnold and Gerald waiting for us on the other side of the building. Gerald looked eager to see Phoebe and took her by the hand, leading her across the street as he had done every morning since the year before.

"Arnold?" I asked, finding that he was giving me that look that he had given me when we were suspended from the bridge in San Lorenzo, when we had initially believed that death was imminent. "Are you all right?" I asked, staring at him; I no longer had to lower my eyes to do so, as he was now my height. "Hey, are you okay, Football Head?" I asked him gently.

Arnold shook his head, replacing his look of shock with a small smile. "What did you do to yourself?" he asks.

I shrug. "I needed a change," I reply. "Do you like it?"

He smiles, taking my hand. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't," he tells me as we walk across the street. "But Helga, the truth is, I fell in love with you when you looked, I don't know...like _you_. You didn't need to do all this."

"I didn't do it for you, Arnold, I did it for me," I say firmly, smiling at him. "It's not like I'm the kind of person who would deliberately alter their appearance for a significant other. I'm not that kind of girl, Arnold."

Arnold smiles at me. "I know you're not," he replies, "which is exactly why I fell for you in the first place."

"Really?" I ask.

"One of the many reasons," Arnold tells me.

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _It was very sweet of you to send me my locket back, along with the picture of us at Rhonda's party when we got back from San Lorenzo—the first time. I was just remembering our second trip the other day, when we went for a romantic walk near the stone bridge. I remember it like it was yesterday, when you telling me that you were in it for the long run, and I had to contain myself from utterly swooning and making a fool of myself. You'll remember as well as I do that I failed in the most miserable fashion there was, but you never called me on it. Perhaps you liked me when I was like that, because I was in a vulnerable position, so different from my tough exterior._

 _How was your Christmas? Again, I apologize for not having the funding to head out there myself. The price of stamps has gone down with the new year, however, and the very notion that I can afford to send you letters as my next birthday approaches makes me feel better. I can't believe I'll be seventeen-years-old, and one year closer to opening that mysterious folder-like package from you. As time continues, I begin to wonder who will make the massive leap—I can't ask you to give up your dreams, Football Head. Ever._

 _I do hope they're not working you too terribly hard; I realize it is an intensive program and I'm sure you've got all kinds of projects to do. Let me guess—you did lectures of scale models the first week, right? I virtually have no idea what you're up to, other than some of the articles I've read and videos (mainly documentaries) I've seen on the subject. I couldn't just let you go to New York and learn about something I know next to nothing about without getting into it myself. I've always been like that—throwing myself into things you're interested in or taking part in, all to get closer to you. Now, while you're a million miles away, I guess I'm still fully unprepared for the impact of letting you go._

 _You'd be correct—on me not liking a root canal; it was the best analogy I could come up with. At that moment, all I could think of was getting my locket back and, in so doing, nearly shut myself off to the entire situation. Had I just kept my mouth shut and let you speak fully—which I ultimately did—I would have realized what you were doing. I suppose I'd never prepared myself for you actually returning my feelings, so the notion that you'd prepared yourself to do so was a complete eye-opener for me. I'll never forget our times together, Arnold, and let me put your fears to rest—I didn't want them to end how they did, nor do I wish they had ended at all._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

. . .

"What are you thinking?"

"Hmmm?" I asked, turning to Arnold where we sat on the playground, just a week before Halloween began. "What? I'm sorry..."

Arnold smiled. "What are you thinking?"

"Oh. Right. Um... Debating on whether or not to go to Rhonda's costume party, I guess... What about you?"

Arnold grins. "I thought we were going together."

I feel my face flush at his declaration. "Oh. Well, of course we are," I say, rolling my shoulders. "I've been looking a lot through Olga's old boxes of things that fit me and, combined with those YouTube tutorials, I'm all set to make my costume this year. Managed to find a halfway-decent used sewing machine, and it's been quite an activity for me..."

"I'm glad that you've found something you like," Arnold replies. "Maybe we can have a couple's costume."

I lower my eyes. "But then people will _really_ know that you and I are..."

"Everyone knows!" shouts Harold from the other side of the playground, giving us a thumbs-up.

"Harold's right," Nadine says as she skips by. "Opposites attract, as they say, and you are a prime example of that," she tells us before skipping to join Rhonda on the opposite sides of the playground.

"Unless you don't want to do a couple's costume," Arnold says. "It doesn't matter to me either way."

"Do you want to do a couple's costume?" I ask.

Arnold smiles. "Only if you do."

I nod. "I do... And I know it sounds totally cliché, but..."

"Prince and princess?" Arnold asks.

I let out a laugh then. "Admittedly, yes," I reply. "But not just your ordinary princess—I want to go seriously steampunk with this one."

"Sounds good to me."

"No, I mean it," I tell him. "As in, I'm fighting the dragon right beside you, not passed out asleep behind the couch like my mom is..."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Arnold tells me, taking my hand as the bell rings and as we get to our feet. "What colors were you thinking?"

"Green," I tell him. "Greens and browns and silvers. Nothing but the best for this dynamic royal duo."

"I can't wait to see what you come up with for yours," he says as we head back inside. "I know we're going to blitz the competition."

"You can say that again," I reply.

It takes all I can to keep a level-head for the rest of that Friday afternoon; having done all the assignments until the following Monday, I knew I had to spend the weekend working on my costume. Once I got home, I sifted through some of Olga's old things and found just what I needed to make a warrior princess type costume, one that I was sure Rhonda would approve of, and one that Arnold could be proud of. I spent nearly the entire weekend, holed up in my bedroom stitching and sewing and doing everything possible to make this costume perfect.

Finally, on Sunday night, I'd managed to make something amazing. A brown gypsy skirt with a green peplum top, as well as a mid-length brown cape, a pair of Olga's old brown leather boots, and—once I'd curled my hair—the illusion was complete. I attached my locket—with one of those black and white photographs that you can get a fair in a booth—in its center, and as I stood there, proudly before the mirror, I knew I'd achieved greatness.

Rhonda had made it clear that twelve-year-old seventh graders did _not_ wear their costumes to school, and so everyone who got an invite to her party followed this rule when we arrived at school Tuesday morning. The students who showed up in costumes looked suspicious of the rest of us, but they were all in different classes and didn't know Rhonda, so they couldn't have automatically expected an invitation anyway. Mr. Simmons dressed as a vampire and attempted to deduce why none of us were dressed up, but none of us let on the real reason why.

"The party is at six," Arnold says to Gerald, Phoebe, and I at recess. "I say we all meet at our typical walking to school place at 5:45, and then we head over there together. What do you say?"

"Sounds good, man," Gerald replies.

"Count me in," Phoebe says.

"Helga?" Arnold asks.

I nod. "Sure, that's all right," I confirm.

When the final bell rang at 3:30, we all walked part of the way home together, before heading in opposite directions towards our own houses. I said goodbye to Phoebe and walked the rest of the way on my own, unlocking the door and stepping inside. With Dad at work and Mom in the living room, I was shocked when she actually greeted me as I came in, and I played nice as I ran upstairs to do my homework before I got ready.

The homework took no more than a half-hour, and then I jumped in the shower to wash my hair so as to curl it more easily later. Once my shower was completed, I stepped out and blow-dried my hair halfway, and my body completely. I walked into my bedroom next and pulled my costume off the mannequin and pulled on everything, completing it with some green stockings I'd bought in town. Once the locket was in place, I returned to the bathroom and curled my hair before securing the cape into place and the pouch at my waist that had once belonged to Olga when she was in high school.

I walked downstairs, shouting goodbye to Mom, who was now fully absorbed in the television again. Dad was still not home, so getting out of the house, down the block then and towards Phoebe's house proved to be a cinch. Phoebe was just coming out of the house as I came by, and I waved to her, and waited at the base of the stairs for hers before walking down the block to our meeting point with Arnold and Gerald.

"A mouse?" I asked Phoebe.

She grinned. "Yes. Gerald is going to be a cat."

I raised my eyebrows at her choice of costume, but decided not to say anything negative about it. "Clever," I reply.

We continue down the block and converge on the meeting point just as Arnold and Gerald do themselves, and Gerald steps forward like always and takes Phoebe's hand, walking in the direction of Rhonda's house together. Arnold grins when he sees me, taking my hand and kissing me on the cheek. As we continue down the block, we make small talk amongst ourselves until Rhonda's house comes into view, and Gerald and Phoebe get inside immediately, the music of Taylor Swift greeting our ears and seeming strangely out of place.

"Before we go in," Arnold says, and I turn around to face him as he reaches inside his own cape, and hands something over.

"What is it?" I ask, opening the paper bag.

"Every princess needs a crown," he says as I pull out a costume princess crown and prince crown. "I thought we should have little adornments, even though we're slaying dragons."

I smile, looking down at the crowns beneath Rhonda's porch light. "You didn't have to do this, you know..."

"I know," he replies, taking the crown and placing it own my head, while I do the same to his. "But I wanted to," he tells me, taking my hand again and turning towards the door. "Shall we?"

I nod. "We shall," I tell him, and we walk into the party together, hand in hand, as any royal couple would do.


	4. A Beautiful Mind

Chapter Four: A Beautiful Mind

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _I remember the surprise party I threw you when you turned thirteen could have definitely gone better. Rhonda wanted to take over the planning entirely, Harold wanted to plan the menu based on his tastes, and Stinky wouldn't leave me alone to plan it. Thankfully, I knew that Gerald and Phoebe would be good at assisting me —Gerald because he knows you so well and Phoebe because she's the best one at organizing things in class._

 _But, of course, Rhonda tried to establish her own point of view on the celebration, Harold tried to eat everything, and Stinky still tried to dance with me, even though it was made abundantly clear that you and I were a couple. It certainly helped that your mom and dad were there, at your second birthday you had since they returned to Hillwood, and I know it meant a lot to you. I just hope you found my personally stitched cap I made for you with A + H stitched inside made the ultimate finale of the day better._

 _I had never seen you smiling more that day since we'd woken up your parents in San Lorenzo—I never thought anything would make you so happy. Of course, when you opened your acceptance letter to the competition, I knew that that day would soon outrank your first birthday party as a teenager. How could it not? Your dreams were finally coming true, and nothing and nobody should have ever attempted to stand in your way._

 _I know it was your turn to send a letter, Football Head, but I was honestly just thinking of your birthday and I had to write it down. It started out as a milestone essay for class, and then suddenly it turned into a letter to you. Everything always turns into you, Arnold, just like those ink blots I had to look at during sessions with Dr. Bliss. Even word association; whenever someone mentions sports, I go directly to football and then it's all over._

 _But not us. I think you've made that abundantly clear._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

. . .

"I just never understood the concept of the title, I guess," I say softly, shaking my head as I try to stand still on the hassock as Nadine attempts to secure my Christmas play costume in place. "We're doing _A Christmas Carol_ , and why at the end do they want to do a rendition of _Do They Know It's Christmas_ and _Jingle Bell Rock_ and _Santa Claus is Comin' to Town_? None of it makes any sense anymore, unless they want to modernize the show, which would be downright criminal, if you ask me..."

Nadine tries not to laugh. "Well, you think you have the easy job," she says, doing her best at sewing my outfit. "You get to play your boyfriend's wife in the production."

" _Ohhh_!" I say, pricking all over before I force myself to snap out of it. "Um, well, yes, and it's the role of a lifetime. A mother to a bunch of children...played by third graders and younger...who hopefully remember their lines..."

"I think it'll be fine," Nadine tells me, finishing cutting some extra thread on my costume with a quick snip. "There," she says, stepping back to inspect it. "What do you think? I know it's not much—just a long-sleeved wool dress, apron, stockings, and simple shoes... And then there's that thing you have to wear on your head for some reason..."

"A coif," I say gently. "It's meant for purity and modest purposes typically, but I think, here at least, it's for warmth..."

"Is your hair secure inside it?" Nadine asks, looking it over. "The pins aren't sticking into your scalp, are they?"

I shake my head. "No, it's all right," I reply, turning this way and that to see every angle of my costume. I climb down, turning so that Nadine can check if there are still any pins lodged in it. "Okay," I say, letting out an exhale to rid myself of any anticipation. "Dress rehearsal time."

I leave the makeshift dressing room put together for me and walk down the hallway towards the stage, opening the door and stepping inside. I slip from the wings and into the audience, where other cast members are told to sit and watch the production, whilst taking notes, only coming onstage when needed. I slip through the darkened theater into my seat next to Arnold, who is waiting for his cue to enter. Gerald, as Scrooge himself, must wait in the wings, while Phoebe, as one of the ghosts, sits on my other side to wait for her cue.

Arnold leans over in the dark then, and I feel my skin automatically prickle at the sense that he is close to me, under cover of darkness. "I love the costume," he whispers to me. "I don't care what people of the day said—that the poor dressed plainly... _You_ make it look amazing."

" _Ohhh_!" I said for the second time that day, and force myself to snap out of it, just as Arnold takes my hand. "You're _such_ a Football Head," I mutter, leaning close to him in the dark and kissing him on the cheek.

We watch as the narrator steps out on Mr. Simmons's demand and recounts what everyone is about to see, almost as if nobody in Hillwood has ever seen or heard of _A Christmas Carol_ before. Doing my best not to roll my eyes at Eugene's rather enthusiastic delivery of a tragic beginning, Arnold, Phoebe, and I watch as Gerald enters the stage and trudges along. Honestly, without the fake snow, it makes the whole experience even more daunting.

Arnold squeezes my hand as he gets to his feet, running up the stairs towards the wings, when the set flips around and Gerald is suddenly standing in the business of Ebenezer Scrooge, where Arnold does his best to look scrawny, underpaid, and underfed as he tries his best to wish Gerald a 'Merry Christmas'. It doesn't work out very well, and Gerald is crochety in his delivery of making Arnold feel rather insignificant at having any kind of holiday spirit.

"I like that Gerald got this role," Phoebe whispers to me.

"Why?" I ask her.

"Not about a race thing," she says quickly, almost as if she would even consider that that was even on my mind. "It's wonderful to see how strong he can be. I wasn't along for the ride in San Lorenzo the first time around, so it's not like I really got to see him in action..."

"I like that Arnold got to be Bob Cratchit," I reply, "because I think it's nice to see him be a little vulnerable once in a while..."

Phoebe laughed. "Only you would say so, Helga."

 _It's not like Romeo and Juliet, Helga old girl_ , I think to myself as I watch Arnold on stage with Gerald. _Sure, this time you and Arnold play a married couple, but last time around, you got to kiss. This time around, he's your boyfriend, and it's not like_ —

"That was great, Gerald, Arnold," Mr. Simmons says, interrupting my thoughts. "I want to take it from where Bob Cratchit gets home after a hard days' work and greets his wife. Helga, can you come on stage please?"

"No problem," I say, navigating my way through the dark and going up the stairs and through the wings before entering as the sets are changed out for the interior of the Cratchit home. "Now what?" I ask.

"I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted to play it like this, you guys," Mr. Simmons says as I notice Gerald joining Phoebe back in the audience, "but I think it's worth a try, at least. When Arnold enters, Helga, I want you to kiss him. Do you think you can do that?"

 _Can I do that_? I thought to myself, trying my best not to smirk and to attempt to remain professional. "Yes, I can," I say turning to Arnold.

Arnold grins. "No problem," he says.

. . .

 _Dear Helga,_

 _Of course I don't mind if you send me an extra letter now and again—if you can afford the postage. I looked up the benefits of a strictly instant noodles or ramen diet and found that, due to the high sodium content, it's very unhealthy. I don't want you hurting yourself as a means of communicating with me. I'm sure Mom and Dad wouldn't mind if you used the phone during your weekly visits to the boarding house, although I know you're too proud to ask. That's one of the things I always loved about you, Helga—your pride. While it was there, you steadfastly remained behind it and never questioned your judgements. It was never an unattractive quality, I assure you._

 _Contrary to your opinion on the matter, I actually_ did _enjoy my thirteenth birthday surprise party. I remember my mom saying something like, "That girl must love you, Arnold, if she went to all this trouble..." All I remember thinking was, "Mom, if you only knew..." If I wasn't assured of it previously, I knew it for a fact when you gathered up my favorite things—and all my favorite people—in the boarding house to celebrate my birthday and entrance into teenhood. I know you expressed some concerns to Phoebe that, when I became a teenager, that I would somehow want to end my relationship with you because you were still twelve. I never wanted to end my relationship with you, Helga. Ever._

 _I may have not smiled the same way as I did when my parents woke up in San Lorenzo, or when I first discovered the surprise party. I will tell you this—and the pilot, co-pilot, and flight attendants can attest to it—that I never cried more than I did on the flight to New York. I think they actually wanted to turn the plane around, it got so terrible. From the moment you left me there at security, all I wanted to do was run after you and beg your forgiveness for following my dreams, the dreams of a fourteen-year-old boy. Little did I know that those dreams would change and become new ones. I guess I never considered the fact that personal dreams could ever supersede professional ones._

 _You want to know where I think it truly all began for me? I can't believe I never told you this... It was when the entire town flooded, and my grandpa had to come and save us in his boat. You offered your hand to Mr. Simmons as we pulled him back to safety with that makeshift rope. I remembered thinking how brave you were to do that, and I also remembered that I thought I should have stepped in to help you pull him up. You misjudged the distance and that was when you went flying head-first into the water. All I remembered was thinking, "Why didn't I help her when I got the chance?" and then I was screaming in fear because I thought you were gone forever, and you screamed my name. I remember being so relieved when you finally got back to safety._

 _As the month of separation between us stretched into years, all I can remember thinking is back to the fourth grade, back before you ever said anything, and back before I even considered that it was you. It was always you, Helga, I know that now, and it will always be you. I remember I knew it when we had to kiss in the Christmas play, and how even everyone's parents knew that we were a couple. I mean, you can't fake chemistry like that, can you? I guess a well-trained actor could, sure, but I know all those times you kissed me over the years, it couldn't have been a case of good acting, could it? You weren't seriously going to barf when we played Romeo and Juliet?_

 _Something tells me that it was all part of the game..._

 _This is no longer a game, Helga—we're growing up, and it's time to make the make it or break it choices in our lives. I just hope the ones we make turn out to be the right ones. Not the right ones for society, or for our families and what they want for us—the right choices for us, at any given time, that we may make, for our own greater good._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

. . .

Per Mr. Simmons's instructions, Nadine called me into the costume shop just hours before the show to perform my final alterations for the play. Cramps had plagued me throughout the day, but I'd been convinced that they'd been nerves, and nothing I wouldn't be able to handle. It's not like I had stage fright; I'd played Juliet Capulet and a lifeguard on _Babewatch_ already, so it wasn't like I didn't have a resume of some kind.

Nadine finished the costume fitting in record time and I was free to amuse myself for a while—maybe run lines or something—and I decided to take a walk in an effort to ease the pain. However, it did not go away, and I was becoming nervous that they would hinder my performance. Walking past the main office and finding it unlocked but deserted, I stepped inside and towards the student phone, my hand shaking as I dialed the only number I could think of.

"Hello?" asked the melodious voice from the other end of the phone. "Who is calling please?"

I grit my teeth, hoping that I can sound somewhat polite. "Olga, it's... It's your baby sister," I say quietly into the receiver.

"Baby sister?" she whispers, shocked that I would address myself in such a way after disliking it for years. "Are you all right? Is there anything I can do to help you? What's wrong?"

"No," I reply, shaking my head. "I have these pains in my abdomen and I don't know what to do... I think it might be stress of some kind—we have a play at school tonight—but I'm worried that it might be something else..."

At once, Olga drops the charming façade and is all business. "Where are you right now?" she asks.

"In the main office," I reply, looking around to make sure that nobody saw me, for all intents and purposes, breaking in.

"And what time is the play?"

"Not for another two and a half hours... Why?"

She sighs. "I was on my way into town anyway—I left a few things at the house and I knew Mom and Dad would be at the school. I'm just getting into town—I see the 'Welcome to Hillwood' sign. Meet me in front of the school in twenty minutes, okay, Helga?"

 _Twenty minutes_? I thought to myself. _It wouldn't take you twenty minutes to get from the entrance of town to my school—less than ten, if that_... "Sure, I can do that," I reply.

"Thanks for calling me, Helga," Olga says. "I'll see you soon."

"Bye," I say quickly into the phone, placing it back into the cradle and slipping out of the main office before anyone spotted me. I continued walking around the school, checking my watch every now and again, and growing frustrated when the numbers didn't seem to want to move. However, they did move, and soon I was dashing through the correct hallways and outside, where Olga was just pulling up in front of the school and getting out of her car.

"Helga," she says gently, stepping forward, a bag in her hands. "Don't worry—I know what's happening and everything's going to be fine."

"What's happening?" I whispered, looking around, not wanting anyone to see me this vulnerable— _especially_ Arnold. "I mean, I swear the pain has gotten worse and I don't know what to do..."

Olga smiles. "It's okay. It's a very special time for you."

"A very special...?" I begin, suddenly my mind clicking as I did the math. I was twelve, the average age of— "Olga, are you sure?" I whispered, suddenly shaking, and not just from the cold.

Olga nodded, handing the bag she brought over. "I guessed your size," she says, and I see a new package of underwear inside the bag. "And the things on the bottom are... Well, that's what I used when mine started," she says, smiling down at me. "It's going to be fine."

"And the pain?" I say, trying to keep my temper.

Olga reaches into her purse and pulls out a small, white, plastic bottle, tipping two pills into her hand and handing them over. "These should work within twenty minutes, but don't take them in front of everybody else."

"Why?" I ask, weighing the brick red colored pills in my hand as I inspect them carefully in the darkness, just beneath the street lamp. "What are they?"

"Just ibuprofen," Olga says with a smile. "But I know schools have rules about pain killers, so just try to be discreet about it."

I sigh, shifting the bag a little in my arms to a more comfortable position. "You didn't have to do all this," I say quietly.

Olga smiles. "Yes, I did. I'm sorry it took me so long to realize how incompetent both our parents are. Mom would likely snore throughout the conversation, and Dad would give you a lecture about boys only wanting one thing..."

I raise my eyes to hers. "Is that what happened with you?" I ask.

Olga nods. "Yes," she replies. "Luckily, I was never too out there about my crushes, and I'm glad you at least inherited that from me. I mean, do Mom and Dad even know that you and Arnold are together?"

I shrug. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, it's not like there's heavy petting sessions going on in the living room, but, you know..."

Olga laughs a little. "Yeah, I think Mom being passed out either on or behind the couch kind of kills the moment."

I find I have the nerve to laugh back at that accurate description. "Yeah, I think you're right," I reply. "I spend pretty much every holiday with Arnold and his family now, and Mom and Dad, they don't..." I lower my eyes, feeling as if I am about to get totally real with my older sister. "They only ever notice you, you know, Olga. Since you graduated early and now here you are—you're twenty-four and you're in your last year of getting your doctorate, and then you're off to bigger and better things..."

Olga nods, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, a good-sized diamond flashing on her finger. "Yeah, I know," she says softly. "You'll get there."

"What is that?" I ask, my eyes seizing upon it.

Olga blinks for a moment, her eyes following mine to where they rest on her perfectly-manicured hand. "Oh, this?" she asks, gazing down at it fondly. "I...well, I got married."

"You...got married?" I ask her, shaking my head. "Just like that?"

She sighs. "It was a whirlwind, if that's what you mean," she tells me. "I met him over the summer before you started sixth grade—right after we got back from San Lorenzo," she tells me. "I guess I wanted some stability, and Harrison just kind of walked into my life..."

"Walked into?" I ask. "He's not some street guy, is he?"

"No, no," Olga says, her eyes shining in defense of her husband. "Harrison Portman works as an executive on Wall Street. And before you say anything, I've been to his office and met his subordinates and supervisors and everything. He's the son of this guy who owns a big company," she says softly, lowering her eyes again to the expertly-cut diamond.

"He treats you right?" I ask.

Olga raises her eyes to mine again. "Of course," she says passionately. "We spend time together... Sometimes, we spend hours and hours just talking about what we're going to name our children and how we're going to raise them..."

I raise my eyebrows. "Are congratulations in order?"

Olga blushes, looking around. "Don't tell Mom and Dad yet or anyone—Harrison and I aren't saying anything until twelve weeks, but... Yes," she says in a whisper, excitement flowing through every fiber of her being. "I'm only about ten weeks in but some things are definitely happening," she says, lowering her hand to her stomach and sighing a little.

"What do you mean?" I ask her.

"It's twins," Olga replies. "Harrison and I are having twins."

A sharp pang from my impatient abdomen came then, and I gritted my teeth. "Can you stay for the show?" I asked, checking my watch, realizing that we were encroaching on one hour before showtime and that I would need to make my presence known as quickly as possible.

Olga sighs. "Okay... I'll sit in the back," she says.

I shake my head. "Mr. Simmons likes you, so if you promise not to get in the way, I'm sure we can persuade him to let you sit backstage."

Olga grins, throwing her arms around me. "Thank you, baby sister!" she trills, but then, remembering herself, immediately draws back. "Sorry," she says. "I know you're not really into—"

I close the distance between us and throw my arms around her. "I'm working on it," I reply.

. . .

"So, you called Olga instead of just telling your mother about it?" Dr. Bliss asks, seemingly surprised at the change of pace.

I nodded. "Yeah... I can't explain it..."

"I think I can," Dr. Bliss says gently. "Maybe, because Olga grew up in the same environment as you did, albeit under different circumstances, you thought that she would understand the situation better."

"Well, that... And nobody in their right mind wants to get a lecture from Dad," I say, shuddering at the very thought of it. "I don't want my dad going on and on about how guys are all the same and that..."

"You don't want to have 'the talk' with your parents?"

I shrug. "I don't really need it," I reply. "We covered the basics in health class and I _did_ get a computer for Christmas," I say softly. "And besides, I'm way too young to be even thinking about going there. Sure, I've got a boyfriend, but Arnold and I aren't there yet, and even if we were, I think we'd have a discussion about it which could take years..."

Dr. Bliss smiles. "Well, at least you've got a plan for the meantime," she says, and continues writing things down. "How is your sister?"

"She got married," I say, still hardly able to believe it myself. "Her husband works on Wall Street."

"That's impressive," Dr. Bliss puts in. "Are they happy?"

"They seem to be," I tell her. "I have to admit, I was afraid she would get hurt again after her first failed attempt at marriage, so I looked up Harrison Portman, just to make sure he was the real deal..."

"And is he?" Dr. Bliss asks. "The real deal?"

I nod. "He is. I called his place of work and they'd heard of him, and when I asked to speak to him, he seemed so pleased to hear from me. He called me his 'dear little sister-in-law' and said that..."

"What did he say, Helga?"

"He said that the house he has with Olga is so big that there's room...for me...if I ever want to move in with him," I say quietly.

"Is that something you might want?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I'm not completely against the way things are now. Sure, I have no parental guidance whatsoever, but my father pays the bills and my mom gets me anything I might ever need... But there's Arnold, and now that he and I are a couple, I don't want to live Hillwood."

Dr. Bliss nods. "You know, Helga, you have to consider that you're almost thirteen and that you might be putting all of your eggs into one basket," she says gently. "I mean, of course, ideally, we'll be with our first love forever, but you can't just assume that. If you really think there's a remote possibility that you'll be better off living with your sister and brother-in-law, you have to consider it, even if it's not your first choice, because if that's what's best for you..."

"It's not," I say firmly, cutting across her, not really meaning to be rude. "I know it's not. I love Arnold, and I want to stay with him."

Dr. Bliss sighs, but decides to move on. "Okay, Helga," she says, writing down a little bit more before looking up at me. "Only you know yourself the best. Even I know when to step back."

I nod, forcing a smile onto my face. "I know what's best for me," I reply, gripping the edge of the couch.

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Just a few more weeks until the big 1-7. It's so hard to believe that the holidays are over, and I no longer feel the need to feel pathetic during New Year's Eve. I know that Valentine's Day will be harder, as it comes with the territory, but if I convince myself that it's just a simple greeting-card holiday, it might not matter so much. I remember being so jealous over the years—first of Ruth, then Cecile, then Lila—and how much I wanted you to notice me. Funny how things work out sometimes, and how much someone can care for another._

 _I remember when Mr. Simmons had to yell at us for prolonging the kiss of_ A Christmas Carol _—I guess it was cute when we were nine and doing_ Romeo and Juliet— _but I guess being twelve and thirteen respectively the second time around, it wasn't funny. I thought it was amusing when they extended the show for the final week before the holidays really set in. The whole controversy of the then-presidents' decree of not saying 'Happy Holidays' had died down, but was not forgotten. I know you know that it was a sham—the whole entire business with the election—but we all got through it, and were better and stronger people because of it. If we lived through that, we can live through anything._

 _Rush hour at the diner is still complicated—constantly running around and taking orders from people who should order salads instead of fries. Ever since I lost Dr. Bliss—and everything else, it seems—I find it much harder to keep a handle on being polite. However, choosing my battles has worked wonders, and I know that if I keep my mouth shut, I'll still have a job, and be able to pay rent and electric and for groceries. It's hard, being on my own like this, but I know that, ultimately, it was the best thing for me to do._

 _Dr. Bliss told me that I would have to choose the best thing for me eventually, and I know that, at the time, I did. Maybe it was the best thing for me at the time, but it certainly was not the best for the long-term. Maybe someday I will find my best thing, but until then, I do know that I take solace in this little method of communication we have going for ourselves, and knowing that there's a light at the end of the tunnel, after all this, it becomes worth it._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_


	5. Snake Eyes

Chapter Five: Snake Eyes

ANNOUNCEMENT: Hey guys! I wanted you all to be involved a little in the story, so here's what's going to happen. Read until the end of the story and them PM me about what you think Olga should name her twins from the names provided by Helga to Arnold. Now, if you don't like the names, that's fine, but I don't want a lot of negative activity in my inbox. So, if you _really_ don't like the names provided, please give me ONE name you prefer—one for a boy, one for a girl.

Hope this was a fun thing to do!

Now, onto the story!

—

The rest of the winter snow melted, and time passed and soon, springtime was just around the corner and my own thirteenth birthday was on the horizon. I didn't ask for anything and made no comments or suggestions about it; having endured years of disappointment from my parents, I figured it was best not to say anything. With me paying for my own monthly expenditures on my own—not wanting to ask Olga for any extra favors, so as not to spoil our new good relationship—I didn't do much as a means of activities outside my house. Other than school, and my walks to the boarding house on occasion, I was a virtual homebody who kept to my room doing my homework.

"Helga, your birthday is two weeks away," Arnold said during the walk home one Wednesday after school. "You must want to do something."

I shrug. "Just another year," I reply, squeezing his hand. "Besides, I have every little thing I could ever want, plus the big thing I wanted for years," I tell him, turning to look at him with a smile.

"You seriously don't want anything?" Arnold asks. "My mom wants to make you dinner and any cake you want."

I smile, touched. "Of course, that's perfect," I tell him. "Tell her just a standard white cake with buttercream frosting is fine."

"Pink buttercream?" Arnold asks.

I shake my head. "No, of course not. But big, pink, loopy letters which say, _Happy Thirteenth Birthday, Helga_ , for all to see, of course."

Arnold laughs. "I think my mom can handle that." He shakes his head then as we near the separation point. "I can't believe you don't want anything..."

"Why?" I ask, shrugging. "It's not like it's any different from any other year—in my family, at the very least."

"I just wish they could be more appreciative of you..."

"Like you are?" I ask, slightly coy.

Arnold nods. "Well, yeah. I mean, I try to be." He hesitates for a moment before allowing himself to look over at me. "You would tell me if you felt there was a lack of appreciation on my end, wouldn't you?"

I fight hard and succeed in not laughing totally out loud. "You're an amazing boyfriend, Arnold Shortman," I tell him.

Arnold grins. "I kind of miss 'Football Head', now..."

"Do you?" I ask, hesitating at the divide where our two blocks converge. I look ahead to where Gerald and Phoebe, pretty much unnoticed, say their goodbyes and separate, before turning to us and waiting. "Well, Football Head, I'll see you tomorrow, then," I say, turning to him.

Arnold smiles, leaning across to kiss me. "Looking forward to it, Helga," he replies, turning and walking off with Gerald.

. . .

 _Dear Helga,_

 _As our time passes more quickly, and our separation becomes longer, I find myself thinking more and more of your selflessness, and I was not the only one who noticed, believe me. Of course, my mother was the first one to verbally point it out, especially when your thirteenth birthday came around. The expression, 'When I was her age', may have come up more than once in conversation. All I could think was, 'Why doesn't my girlfriend want the birthday party she deserves?' It hurt me to see you so nonchalant about the whole thing. In the list of important birthdays—I mean there's one, five, ten, thirteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one... And so on and so on; and it didn't seem to matter to you._

 _And then it occurred to me—I fell for you_ because _typical, everyday things_ didn't _matter to you. Not only because you hadn't experienced the vast majority of them, but because you were, well, you. Suffice it to say I was nevertheless flabbergasted at the notion that you didn't want a proper birthday party, but my mother told me not to dwell upon it. She said it was appropriate for me to ask once and, at your definite refusal, to cease operations entirely._

 _I think the whole betterness in your attitude cannot do solely with me, and I refuse to take all the credit for it either. I think the other person responsible for your betterness would have to fall with Dr. Bliss. I know you miss her; you said so in your one and only phone call to me, three months after I left. I remember hearing your voice shaking at the other end of the phone, and when I tried to ask you what was wrong, you slammed down the receiver. I looked at flights that night, you know—I even spoke to my professors about going home but, apparently, an ex-girlfriend who you broke up with three months before is not a priority, even if said ex-girlfriend is in the middle of a crisis. I never told you this, Helga, but I heard you crying just before the receiver slammed down; I heard you whisper my name, and how much of me wanted to go home was quickly borderlining on a hundred and four percent._

 _I find myself somehow apologizing for more and more as this correspondence continues, and I am not sorry about that. You deserve an apology, Helga, for all the trials and ordeals you had to go through in your lifetime—before, during, and after me. I know you're working hard because Gerald checks up on you through Phoebe for me. I know it's a slightly invasive practice, but I do worry about you, living all alone in an apartment like that. With you working only part time, and at your age, you can't be making all that much financially, and I consider every day telling my parents to invite you to live at the boarding house or help you out in any other way. Who knows? They'd probably want you to live with them anyhow, as a last link to me, since they refuse to speak to me, after the way you and I left things all those years ago._

 _I don't think of myself as a fantastic person, Helga; a fantastic person would not abandon the one person they've ever cared so deeply about at the drop of a hat. I think I should have tried harder to convince you. Maybe if that had happened, we would still be in Hillwood, together, attending a typical high school, and having normal high school experiences. But you and I... I know that you and I were never normal, Helga—none of this has ever been normal. And I'm glad. I'm glad for all of it, and the only thing I would ever take back is the way I left things with you, and for going to New York to tackle my dreams, when I should have waited for you in the first place._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

. . .

Arnold told me to arrive at the boarding house on the day of my birthday around four-thirty, and I was more than willing to comply. With my dad finally running that appliance shop he'd always wanted—and money coming in on the regular like it had been when beepers were all the rage—my mother didn't spend all her time passed out in front of the T.V. anymore. In fact, she'd gone up to New York to spend the weekend with Olga and Harrison. Olga had told me that she would be telling Mom about the twins, and I was looking forward to a play-by-play on what her reaction would ultimately be.

The very fact that I was home alone on my birthday when I left to go to the boarding house at the appointed time did not phase me in the slightest. I was thirteen-year-old, after all, and not a completely helpless being. It was an uneventful walk for the most part, and I waved when I passed Phoebe's house, where she and Gerald—who had already given me a customized notebook for my birthday—were having a romantic evening of drinking tea and watching movies. I tried my best not to laugh at the corniness of the date night, and manage to succeed as I came to the dividing point between Arnold's and my houses.

The rest of the walk to the boarding house was typical, and I was careful not to stumble over any cracks in the sidewalk. I was wearing a surprising gift from my mother that day—left on the kitchen table early this morning before she left to drive up to New York—and actually signed by my father. It was a pink dress with a white collar, and new black Mary Jane shoes. Frilly socks completed the ensemble perfectly, I thought, as I walked along the sidewalk. The card had said something along the lines of, ' _To our darling daughter on her thirteenth birthday. I know I can't believe how much time has passed—and your father can't either. We hope you enjoy the outfit and fifty dollars in cash. Love, Mom and Dad_ '. Money, I knew, didn't buy happiness, but I still appreciated the gesture as many young people would.

I finally reached the boarding house steps and walked up them, extending my fist towards the door and knocking, hoping that the sound of my knuckles upon the wood did not sound too eager. Thankfully, when Arnold opened the front door, he seemed pleased to see me and took my hand, gently pulling me inside. Looking around, I took off my light sweater off from around my shoulders and hung it up on the hall peg that I so frequently used, and smelled delicious cooking coming into the hallway from the kitchen.

"Wow, that smells incredible," I say approvingly.

Arnold grins, satisfied. "Great—Mom has been cooking all day to get everything just right," he tells me, and I immediately felt guilty. "No, it's okay," Arnold tells me quickly, having seen my expression change. "She loves it—really. She wouldn't have offered to do it unless she wanted to."

I smiled at that. "Well, it's really nice of her. She seriously didn't have to do anything other than tell me 'Happy Birthday'."

"Nonsense," Mrs. Shortman says, stepping through the dining room and out into the hallway. "With your dad busy at work and your mom in New York, I knew that you had to have a good day. Besides, thirteen is a big year for girls, Helga," she says, reaching into the pocket of her apron and handing over a pink envelope. "It's just the card—from Miles, me, Phil, and Gertrude," she tells me with a smile. "I think you'll find that your gifts are on the dining room table."

"Gifts?" I squeak, feeling myself going pale.

"Well, of course—from the boarding house residents and all of us," Mrs. Shortman says with a smile. "We couldn't just have you _not_ have any birthday presents, Helga," she says sweetly, cupping my face for a moment. "You're practically family, you know," she tells me, quickly drawing her hand away as a timer goes off in the kitchen. "Oh, that'll be the cake," she goes on, giving Arnold and me a smile as she scurries off back to the kitchen.

"You didn't have to do all this," I tell Arnold, smiling at him.

"But are you glad I did?" he asks.

I find myself letting out a chuckle then as I move across the hallway towards him, wanting to take advantage of our moment alone together. "Well, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't grateful."

"And are you?" he says, stepping closer to me and taking my hand in his, causing a rush inside me. "Grateful, I mean?"

"Didn't I just say that, Football Head?"

"I don't know," he says. "Did you?"

I lean forward then and throw my arms around him then, resting my head beneath his beautiful football head. He was finally taller than me, and it was an eye-opening experience to think that this love god was mine. I felt the tears enter my eyes then but forced myself to dash them away before he saw or managed to comment on them. I never wanted to appear vulnerable to him ever again, and in that moment, nothing could have made it a better birthday.

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _I remember wiping the tears away on my thirteenth birthday, that day in the boarding house, when you singlehandedly arranged that quiet dinner for me and your family. The notion that all the presents scattered around the table, and all were things I could use and actually liked—it really made me think that you and your mother had arranged that. I mean, your mother had to have been thirteen once, and you knew me better than anyone at that point. It was a new beginning for me, Arnold—Olga's pregnancy was progressing on schedule, Mom was actually leaving the house once in a while, and my dad was actually in a business that was giving him some satisfaction._

 _I think during those months after I became a teenager, all I wanted to do was not make a mistake. I miss Dr. Bliss every day—about how she could talk me down from negative situations by describing less than positive impacts of what would happen, should I decide to take an undesirable approach. Everyone around us was already gearing up for high school—one year prematurely, I might add—but I never allowed myself to think that far ahead. I couldn't; one false move, and I was convinced I was going to lose you._

 _Forever is an awfully long time, Football Head, and I think the ideal is for your first relationship to be just that, especially in the honeymoon phase. Things seemed like they were all hearts and rainbows since we got back from San Lorenzo; I could still call you Football Head—even now, I find myself doing so out of force of habit—and we never had a fight. Ever—I can't think of one time that we had a fight until you got that letter about your upcoming move to New York. I knew then, as I know now, that that was the beginning of the end. Once you moved across the nation, I knew it would be difficult—if not impossible—to even attempt to maintain what we once had. It was a naïve love, Arnold, I see that now, but some of the best moments of my life stemmed from that love._

 _I didn't know how long it would last—neither of us did—but I think even your parents knew that it wasn't forever. It couldn't have been—I mean, could it have been? With this constant back and forth we've got going on here, I can only come to the direct conclusion that these letters are full of "What if this happened instead of this?" I mean, it's good to consider other possibilities, but it's also really painful at the same time. I can't just go through what's left of my teenage years thinking of what might have been._

 _I wish I could stop myself from wishing it was different; I wish I could stop myself from wanting you back; I even wish I could stop myself from loving you. I can't stop it, Arnold—any of it. None of those three statements will ever be possible for me, and I think I have to accept that. All of it._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

. . .

The following Monday was back to reality—and by "reality", I meant the seventh grade with the whole gang. Arnold, Gerald, Phoebe, and I all walked to school as normal, and entered the classroom at the appointed hour of eight in the morning, and Mr. Simmons announced our second midterm project. We would be spending vast amounts of time in the school library, doing research on a topic of our choice, and typing up our reports on the computer. Mr. Simmons explained that we could use books or the internet for references, but that we had to type up our reports, and no handwritten final drafts would be accepted. The only handwritten things could be first, second, and third drafts, as well as any notes.

It seemed simple enough as Arnold and I walked into the library with the rest of the class, trying our best to find computers beside our closest friend. Arnold and I, naturally, sat together, and made small-talk as the computers did their best to fire efficiently to life. As it was so early in the morning, they hadn't even been turned on yet, so we were left staring at black screens for more than a few minutes as they made up their minds to work properly.

"What do you think you'll want to do your project on?" Arnold asked, our computers finally showing us the login screen.

"I'll probably go online and try and find a list of acceptable topics," I say, typing in my username and password—HellGPat and FootballHead—hey, don't judge. "I mean, there can't be very many for our age group—thirteen is a bizarre age where you're no longer sure what's appropriate or not."

Arnold laughs, tying in his username and password—I have no idea what his are, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. "I can't stand not knowing what's no longer acceptable to say in public anymore."

"It's becoming tiresome," I put in, waiting for the computer to present to me its homepage. "I wish I knew what to say half the time, generally..."

"Do you know what to say with me?"

I attempt to laugh, but instead it comes out like, " _Ohhh_!" and I force myself to shake my head, clearing my throat in an awkward manner. "Well, uh, sure. I mean, sometimes I do. Other times it's...difficult..."

"Why?" Arnold asks.

"Because sometimes I have plenty to say or nothing to say, and I don't always know what you want to hear..."

"That's part of the mystery," he says, clandestinely reaching for my hand beneath the desk the line of computers is placed on. "You can't always know what I want to hear, just like I don't always know what you want to hear."

I sigh. "You're right," I say, squeezing his hand before letting it go and going to the internet icon. "You're right, I know you're right..."

"So, how did your mom's visit with Olga go?"

I smile. "It went fine, as far as I know," I reply. "Olga was sure to call me and tell me all about it."

"How did your mom take the news of her expecting?"

"She was a little shocked—it being so fast and all—but she seemed happy about being a grandma," I tell him. "My dad is a different story..."

"Did he not take it well?"

I laugh, typing in something in the internet search engine. "Uh, no, it's not that. He doesn't know yet."

Arnold raises his eyebrows as I turn to look at him. "You think he'll find out at some point?"

I nod. "Yeah—he made a Facebook page for his new appliance business—Bob's Brainchild—and he'll likely look at Olga's profile. She's Olga Portman on there now, and she seems like the kind of person who would likely post pregnancy announcements and stuff—ultrasound photographs, the gender reveal, what names she and Harrison are considering..."

"Do they have names picked out?" Arnold asks. "Do they even know the genders of the twins yet?"

"They're keeping the genders a secret, and they have two pairs of names picked out for both," I reply, scrolling through the articles afforded to me on the school-gleaned internet resources. "They like Theodore or Osias for a boy and Guinevere and Eilis for a girl."

"How do you spell that second name for a girl?" Arnold asks.

"E-I-L-I-S," I reply.

"But it sounds like it's spelled A-Y-L-I-S-H," Arnold says, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"It's Gaelic," I say, shrugging. I continue scanning articles, coming up virtually dry, and consider just doing a report on why you have to empty your bladder more and more as you get older, and then it hit me. "Hypocrisy," I whisper.

"What?" Arnold asks, confused as my hand shoots up.

"Yes, Helga?" Mr. Simmons asks, stepping towards me.

"Can I do my report on how stereotypically wealthy men didn't necessarily have to be monogamous in their marriages over the course of history, and yet women were expected to be?" I ask.

Mr. Simmons raises his eyebrows. "Really?" he asks.

I nod. "Yes. I think it's important and should be talked about."

My teacher nods and smiles. "You'd be right," he says, holding up his clipboard and writing down the topic beside my name. "Henry the Eighth would probably be a good place to start—he was married six times, you know."

I nod. "I know. Thanks, Mr. Simmons," I say, rolling up my sleeves and turning back to my computer, and beginning my research on a man who was never meant to be king in the first place.

. . .

The rest of the week was rather monotonous, but a phone call on Friday, just after school, caught me completely by surprise. Picking up the phone with my typical and humdrum, "Pataki residence," and being fully prepared to hand off the phone to someone else or to just take a message, I was surprised when the caller wanted to speak to me. Also surprising was who the caller, in fact, was.

"Helga, it's Olga," my older sister said, and I could tell that she was doing her best not to address me as "baby sister". "How was the rest of your birthday?"

"Fine, thank you," I reply. "And thanks to you and Harrison, by the way... For the cell phone," I say, peeking over at the latest edition iPhone, complete with a pink case, engraved with HELGA in swirled font on the back. "You didn't have to do that... Well, neither of you did..."

"Oh, please—we wanted to do it," Olga said, laughing a little. "So, listen, I just looked up your school schedule, and your spring break is in the third week of April?" she asks.

I nod, forgetting that she can't see me. "Yes. Yeah, that's when it is."

"Well, are you going down to San Lorenzo again?" she asks.

I laugh. "No, but Mr. and Mrs. Shortman, Arnold, Gerald, Phoebe, and I are all going down for the summer," I say. "Why? Do you want to go?"

Olga laughs. "I'm due in July so I don't know how that would work," she jokes, and I'm happy that we can laugh together. "I was actually wondering if you and Arnold wanted to come up to New York for the week."

"New York?" I ask, hardly believing what I'm hearing.

"Yes. You could catch a bus from the bus station and ride it to New York together, and then Harrison and I would pick you guys up."

I bite my lip. "I don't know how Mom and Dad would feel about me traveling with Arnold alone..."

"You'll be out in public the whole time anyway," Olga says. "And the trip is on us, so don't worry about finances."

"Dad'll talk about us living together for a week," I say softly into the phone. "I'm not looking forward to that talk..."

"Daddy can put a sock in it," Olga tells me. "The house that Harrison and I bought does boast some very fine amenities, if I do say so myself. Although, if I'm being honest, it's not really a house..."

"What did you do?" I ask, laughing. "Rob the royal family of one of their American castles?"

Olga laughs. "You're funny, Helga," she tells me. "And no. It actually belonged to Harrison's maternal grandparents who left it to them in their will. They passed away over five years ago, and Harrison didn't live in it until we got married. He insisted we move in after we got pregnant, because our penthouse apartment in TriBeCa just wasn't a suitable living arrangement for a child..."

"Why?" I ask. "Too much glass furniture?"

"Well, as a matter of fact..." She laughs, letting the sentence drop.

I sigh, looking at the time—it was encroaching on five o'clock, but I thought it best to thank Olga, cut the call, and go talk to Arnold. "What about Mom and Dad?" I ask her, worrying that they would put a damper on our intended plans.

"Don't worry about them," Olga assures me gently. "Harrison and I will handle everything there."

I nod. "Okay."

"Look for your tickets in the mail in the next week," Olga says. "Oh—must go! I have dinner reservations with Harrison at six."

"See you soon," I say.

"Bye, baby sister," Olga says, gushing ever so slightly.

"Bye, big sister," I say, hanging up. I grab my phone, my hands shaking as I manage to access a new text message for Arnold and write, _Coming over. Have to talk. Be five minutes._

I scoot off my bed and step into my shoes, making a grab for a sweater and take my phone from its charger and dash out of my bedroom, switching off the light and shutting the door as I go. I call goodbye to Mom as I fly down the stairs and out the door, hearing her soft farewell from the living room. I shut and lock the front door behind me and run down the block, my heart beating in my ears. My first solo trip with Arnold, where we would have several hours alone by train. This was going to prove to be amazing.

The run towards the boarding house was as eventful as it could be—I even tripped a little in my enthusiasm but, thankfully, nothing was damaged, and I didn't go tumbling either. I stopped running when I got to Arnold's block to catch my breath, inching along the sidewalk as I neared the staircase. Climbing up the stairs, I knocked on the door and, to my shock, Arnold actually answered it. _Well, I guess this new technology_ did _certainly have some benefits_ , I thought to myself as I stepped into the house.

"What's up?" Arnold asks, taking me by the hand and leading me upstairs.

I hesitate. "Your parents...?"

"Out, with my grandparents," he says, pulling me upstairs and into his room and shutting the door behind him. "Sit down—are you all right?"

I perch in one of his chairs and remove my sweater. "Sorry, I ran here," I say, and let out a small laugh. "Sorry," I say again.

"That's okay," Arnold says, sitting across from me. "What's going on? Did you get bad news or something?"

"No," I reply, shaking my head. "Good news, actually."

"Okay," he says, smiling. "Tell me."

"Olga called me," I say.

Arnold quickly does the math. "Okay, so you can't be an aunt yet... Unless you are, but that would be bad news. I know that twins come early, but even this would be too early, right?"

I nod. "Yeah, it's not for another three and a half months," I tell him. "But I said it was good news, and that wouldn't be..."

"Right," Arnold says, laughing before stopping himself. "Sorry. Continue."

"Well, Olga's asked me to go to New York for spring break," I say.

Arnold raises his eyebrows. "New York?"

I nod. "Yes. New York."

Arnold smiles. "Well, I think that's amazing," he says, pulling me to my feet and throwing his arms around me. "Of course, I'll miss you. But I'm not going to be selfish and tell you not to go."

I shake my head, pulling back and away from him. "No, I don't think you're understanding..."

"Did you tell Olga 'no'?" Arnold asks, looking shocked. "Did you tell her 'no' because you thought I wouldn't approve?"

I laugh. "No, that's not it either," I reply. "I didn't explain it right. Olga and Harrison have invited _both_ of us."

He raises his eyebrows. "To New York?"

"To New York," I affirm, "for spring break." I hesitate for a moment before continuing, "It's on them—the trip, I mean. Olga says she and Harrison want to gift it to us."

Arnold blinks. "Really?"

I nod, allowing myself to laugh then. "Really," I reply. "They're sending us bus tickets, and then they'll pick us up at the station in New York."

"You sure you want to go with me?" Arnold asks. "You sure you wouldn't rather ask Phoebe?"

I shake my head. "No—her and Gerald's families are going to the beach," I tell him with a laugh.

"What's so funny about that?" he wants to know.

"Because it's _the_ beach," I say quietly. "The one where that trampy Summer tried to steal you away from me."

Arnold laughs. "For the record, I wasn't..." He shakes his head, his mind suddenly clicking. "You _were_ kissing me on the beach when we did _Babewatch_!"

I shrugged then, feeling myself blush. "Guilty."

Arnold sighs. "Well, at least you didn't lie to me about being into me in order to win the sandcastle competition..."

"You're right," I say. "I lied about _not_ being into you. Although now I can't decide which one is worse..."

"Does it matter at this point?" Arnold asks. "Besides, I think we've established the fact that lying is wrong..."

"Do you mean us-us or society-us?" I ask.

"Both," Arnold says, grinning. "Besides, we're going to New York!"

"Think your parents will be cool with it?"

Arnold laughs. "I think so. What about yours?"

"Olga is dealing with them," I reply. "Maybe she'll catch Dad at a good time—after a really big sale or something..."

"I'm excited to see New York with you," Arnold says.

I grin up at him, never feeling more secure in his arms or in his company. "Back at you, Football Head," I reply as he leans down to kiss me.


	6. Springtime in New York

Chapter Six: Springtime in New York

Surprisingly, neither Arnold's nor my parental units had any qualms about us going to New York for spring break, and so the plans were formally set into motion the following week. I heard from Olga that she had posted Arnold's and my bus tickets, and they would arrive either later in the week or early the following week at my house. My mother inexplicably gave me some cash to go shopping, and was I very surprised to find that Mrs. Shortman was willing to accompany me to the mall for the trip. We set the day for a week before Arnold and I left, as he had already planned to have that day with his father.

In the meanwhile, there were still a couple weeks of school left, and in that time, our midterms were due. I'd finished the preliminary research on mine, and had begun the visual and essay portions. I'd begun a PowerPoint presentation, and was constantly cross-referencing my notes and putting them into my essay. I'd already written the first three drafts, and was strangely able to read my own handwriting as I copied my words—or better alternatives of them—into a Word document. I would constantly be looking over the rubric provided for us by Mr. Simmons, as I wanted to make sure this project made a good impression.

"You must be extremely patient," I put in, looking over Arnold's shoulder as we sat in his room one day after school.

"How so?" he asks, not looking up from his notes, which were complete with drawings of the sea monkeys he was doing a project on, the glass tank he used for them placed on his nightstand.

I shrug. "Well, to have the lives of others in your own hands—literally," I tell him, proceeding to type a bit more in my final draft on my laptop. "I mean, once you're done with your project, you could dump your tank into the sewer and you wouldn't go to prison..."

Arnold smirks, hesitating before continuing to sketch on his notepad. "But that's not my style Helga—you know that."

"Of course I do," I reply, looking down at my notes from my old drafts in my lap, mentally cursing myself for misspelling courtier as cortear. "That's one of the many reasons why I fell for you."

Arnold raises his eyes to mine from behind my screen, and I feel him staring at me without shame. "One of the reasons?" he asks.

I nod. "Of course—you're kind," I say quietly. "You offered me your snack in preschool after Harold stole mine."

Arnold smiles at that, touched, as he lowers his eyes and continues to sketch. "I can't believe you remember that..."

I shrug. "I remember a lot," I say softly. "I guess most kids, when they're faced with a traumatic childhood, they just block everything. For me, that's impossible, because then I'd forget all the good parts."

"The good parts?"

I nod, looking up past my screen to stare at him. "Yeah, the good parts," I say as he looks back up at me again. "They used to be few and far between, but now it's different..."

"Now it's good?" he asks.

I smile, feeling the flush come upon my cheeks as I lower my eyes back to my handwritten draft. "Now it's more than good," I say softly. "More than good, more than great, more than swell..."

"How would you describe it?"

"Fantastically wonderful," I reply. "But, then again, I think anyone would feel that way, especially if they're dating their first love."

"All this coming from someone who kissed Brainy during our trip to San Lorenzo, and used Stinky to make me jealous?" he asks, obviously trying not to laugh at my apparent duplicity.

I scoff then, trying and failing not to roll my eyes. "Well, for the record, that first situation was gratitude—and besides, his actions later helped in saving your parents' lives," I say patiently. "As for the second one, it wasn't my fault that you _still_ hadn't gotten with the program..."

Arnold smiles. "I'll never forgive myself."

I blow him a kiss, finishing a paragraph and starting a new one. "See that you don't," I reply, seeing that its approaching five o'clock. "Oh, it's almost time for me to go home," I say, my shoulders slacking.

"Why don't you just stay for dinner?" Arnold asks.

I shake my head. "No, it's fine. I can reheat something at home..." My question is cut off as Arnold sets down his sketch book and leaves the room, much to my superstition, but I say nothing, continuing with my paragraph. It is when he comes charging back up the stairs and back into his bedroom that I straighten up, saving my document and anticipating his parents telling me to go home.

"My mom said you're more than welcome," Arnold tells me, holding up his hand as I attempt to protest. " _And_ she says that you're going to be staying here for dinner from now on until your parents get with the program. That, or she's going to teach you how to cook," he says, smiling to himself, satisfied.

"You're a terrible person, Football Head," I mutter, lowering my eyes, but still smiling, so as he will know how truly grateful I am.

. . .

 _Dear Helga,_

 _Selfishly, of course, I don't want you to stop loving me—since you know how I feel, I think it's safe to say that I should win the title of 'Most Selfish Ex-Boyfriend of All Time', but I doubt there is such a title. And, even if there was, I doubt I'm even the most selfish one there is. Although I will never even begin to forgive myself for all I've done to you over our years in immediate contact together, I know there were some good times throughout. As bad as the later years are and have been, I know that you or I would never sacrifice or wish away the good times for anything. I know we were truly happy, and nothing will ever change that._

 _That first trip to New York put everything into perspective; although we'd been to San Lorenzo together twice at that point, I guess I never really considered how grand a big city like that could be. I think that was the moment that made me want more, when I became addicted to success after going with Harrison to work. Just knowing how hard I would have to work to get ahead, and how hard I'd have to play ball just to get it all in life. It's not a safe thing, addiction—on any level, really, but when you're addicted to wannabe success, you become a workaholic, and that's something I never wanted to be._

 _Simple things, after coming back to Hillwood, suddenly became a chore, as we were under so much pressure to get it right. I even remember how much pressure there was to pick a high school. Did we want Hillwood High, or did you want to go to Hillwood Academy and me to Hillwood Preparatory, our all-girl and all-boys' private schools? Of course, even if we had gone with the private schools, since they were across the street from each other, they shared a quad and the same lunch hour, so we neither of us would have truly been apart. I remember you working for weeks on your essay for Hillwood Academy, and me for Hillwood Preparatory, and all I could remember thinking was if they had halfway decent budgets for their uniforms. Was it the itchy, cheap wool from underfed sheep, or that softer kind, made from alpaca fur?_

 _I think the last time I saw you working so hard on a specific assignment would have to have been your seventh-grade midterm. I just took the easy way out and did sea monkey living conditions and how they affected population, but you did something far greater. I guess I never really considered monogamy in other centuries, and how much more it supposedly meant for women than for men. I can't believe men were just allowed to run around and do whatever they wanted with whomever they wanted. I guess that's what money got you back them—a roomful of women who were there to do your bidding._

 _After all we went through, I think—I know—that you know me enough to realize that I never looked at anyone else that way, in the years we were together. You and I were hardly ever apart, and our homework got heavier that year, so not only did I not have the time or energy, but I wasn't interested. You were all that mattered to me other than school and my family, as well as our closer friends. But, Helga, believe me when I say this—you were always number one to me._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

. . .

"So, you and Arnold are going on your first semi-solo trip together?" Dr. Bliss says, smiling. "Excited?"

I nod. "Yeah, of course. I mean, I know Olga didn't have to invite him... It means a lot to me that she did."

"Have you thanked her yet?"

"Several times," I reply. "Especially when we got our tickets in the mail earlier this week. We got put into first class... I didn't even know there was a first class on the bus, until I realized it was actually more of a train. More efficient that way, I guess, but it'll be fun."

"How long will you be on the train?" Dr. Bliss asks.

"Almost an entire day," I say. "We leave right after school on Friday, and then we'll get there late Saturday afternoon. Then we go back on Saturday night and get back on Sunday night."

"So, you and Arnold will have to sleep on the train together?"

I nod. "Yes. I looked up the railway system website and found out that we are sharing a room, but it's two floors. There's a living area on both floors and they connect via a stairway, and then there's the separate beds. So technically it's the same room but there's different floors to it..."

"I'm sure your mother has spoken to you about being safe..."

I flush then and lower my eyes. "Olga has mentioned it a few times," I say quietly, rolling my shoulders. "But it doesn't matter because Arnold is a gentleman. Even I know we're not going to do anything. Besides, we're too young."

Dr. Bliss nods. "Well, at least you know that going in," she replies, continuing to take notes. "So often, once girls are around your age are in such a hurry to 'get it over with'," she says, using air quotes. "What they don't understand is that they really have so much growing up to do in the first place."

I smile. "Well, neither of those are true for me. After all, you said that opinion on Edward Hopper was 'astute', and that was back in the fourth grade..."

"You were truly a one-of-a-kind, once-in-a-lifetime patient, Helga," Dr. Bliss replies with a smile. "I knew that Arnold wasn't the right guy for you if he either didn't do anything about it or didn't decline with grace."

"Do you think we can be this happy forever?" I ask.

Dr. Bliss smiles. "You still want to have a fantastic life traveling around the world with him, don't you?" she asks.

I shrug. "I don't know—maybe it was a pipe dream," I say quietly. "Who knows? I mean, Arnold may not even..."

"May not even what, Helga?"

"Want to be with me—you know, long-term..."

Dr. Bliss looks interested. "What makes you assume that?"

I bite my lip. "Well, ever since I gave myself that makeover... Well, I'm actually pretty now..."

"Helga, beauty comes from within," Dr. Bliss explains patiently. "I think your beauty had a chance to soar now that you've got positive confidence in your life, and you're not permanently stuck in an environment where people who don't seem to truly appreciate you. You mentioned that Arnold's mother has you over for dinner every night?"

"Weeknights, and some weekends," I say quietly. "She's shown me a few simple recipes and sometimes I cook at home. I've mastered simple chicken and steak dishes, and I can make potato dishes and mac and cheese. Now we have to work on pot pies next—that's our assignment this weekend."

"Well, it sounds like you may have a future in the food industry," Dr. Bliss puts in with a small laugh.

I shrug. "I don't know—I'm no Julia Child. I just follow the instructions. The food is fine—more than just eatable—but it's nowhere near incredibly delicious. But my parents eat it without complaint, and there's always enough leftovers in the fridge for my dad to bring it to work for lunch."

"Speaking of your parents, how do they feel about you going away with Arnold for a week?" Dr. Bliss wants to know.

"Olga talked to them," I replied. "She went over the itinerary for the entire trip, and my mom gave permission and my dad signed off on it. But he's not dropping off or picking up, and Arnold's parents agreed to do both ways, although I'm going to walk to the boarding house on the morning of, and then they'll bring me back on the Sunday we come home."

"It sounds like you and Olga may actually have a future together of a positive sisterly relationship," Dr. Bliss says.

I smile at the very notion of it. "Yeah. I mean, I hope so. She's really changed after the whole wedding and pregnancy..."

"And her husband? Harrison, right?"

I nod. "Yeah, Harrison. We talked on the phone a few times, and we've even video chatted—Arnold, Olga, Harrison, and I. He's really a great guy, and I can see the appeal," I put in.

"And their house?"

"Inherited from Harrison's maternal grandparents," I tell her. "Olga's shown me pictures and it's truly breathtaking. The architect really knew what he was doing when he put it together."

Dr. Bliss smiles. "Well, it sounds like you're all set, then. Do you have everything you need for the trip?"

"Mrs. Shortman and I go shopping next weekend," I reply. "And then Arnold and I turn in our midterms that Friday before jetting off to New York."

"What are your midterms on?"

"Mine's on the fact that women were expected to remain monogamous throughout history, or face punishment and/or stigma, while men could simply do as they liked and flee the marriage bed whenever they saw fit."

"That's the patriarchy, for you," Dr. Bliss says, shaking her head.

"You're telling me," I say, shuddering. "These horrifying stories I've gotten into for references... Did you know that a woman could be executed for adultery? It's completely disgusting..."

"Still can be, in some parts of the world," Dr. Bliss tells me, and my blood runs cold at her words. "In the Middle East, women have been stoned to death, even if the 'adultery' in question was... Well, if the women were even forced into it, they can be stoned."

I suddenly feel nauseous. "Good god, what a world we live in," I mutter, shaking my head at the notion.

"Amen," Dr. Bliss replies.

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Even after everything that's happened, I could never call you selfish, or heartless, or anything negative whatsoever. Well, no, I take that back—slightly inconsiderate, that's what I'd call you. The point I'm trying to make here is that nobody is perfect, least of all me and least of all you, and we've got to remember that fact, even through times of hardship. Even as I sit here in my drafty apartment in the center of Hillwood, holding onto a mug of Ovaltine and snuggling into my sweater for added warmth, I don't fault you for any of it._

 _With your leaving, it gave me the push to make an effort to carve out a life for myself, and to forever escape the Pataki family. Olga, of course, doesn't count, as she became a Portman upon her message. I wish I spoke to her more; other than you, Phoebe, your parents, and a select few professors at school, I don't find myself purposefully seeking human companionship. Thankfully Wi-Fi is included on the electric bill of my apartment, otherwise I wouldn't have anything to do, or anything else to work for—essays, Football Head, essays._

 _All I can think of, at this point, is getting out of all this and washing my hands of Hillwood for a while but, until then, I'm in a rut. I have to finish school, and only then can I take what I've got of my savings and move on. Did you know the day I finally got the nerve to move out, that my mother just sat there as I lugged all my suitcases out the door? It was a weekend, so my father was home, and he didn't look up from his newspaper from the kitchen table—not once. It was in that moment that I knew that I meant absolutely nothing to them, and I told Olga that if I was ever going to come and visit her not to tell our parents, because I made it very clear that I would never see them again._

 _I don't know why I couldn't realize it before, Arnold, but I've been on my own since the age of four. You never forget a walk in the rain when you're full of sadness, and lecherous men stare out at you from the shadows. And then the sun came out again when I met you, and then I was compelled to have you know who I was, but couldn't. Part of me knew once the real me had spoken, it would be the beginning of the end, and I was right. I had it all for a while, Football Head, but I guess I couldn't have it forever._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

. . .

Arnold and I handed in our midterms on Friday and then his parents came to the school to collect us and bring us to the train station. I'd brought my luggage to the boarding house that morning, which had been lugged into their car and would ride in the backseat. Our train tickets were safe in my bag, and our backpacks had been dropped off in our lockers for safekeeping, as Mr. Simmons had decided not to assign us anything other than reading and a little note-taking. Our assigned book was _To Kill a Mockingbird_ by Harper Lee, and Arnold and I bet the other twenty dollars to see who could finish it first and make sense of the plot.

The drive to the train station didn't take very long, and Mr. and Mrs. Shortman helped us take our suitcases out from the back of the car. They hugged us both goodbye, and Mrs. Shortman kissed both Arnold's and my foreheads. They waved us off as we entered the station, walking over to have our bags checked and to present our tickets. Once we were passed through security, we made our way to the train itself, and were directed on board by a conductor, and were able to quickly locate our cabin. Stepping inside, I agreed to take the upper level, and Arnold agreed, proceeding to set up his things in the lower section.

I checked the time and deduced that we would be shipping out, so to speak, in the next twenty minutes, so we agreed to explore our cabin before taking our keys and keeping them on our person at all times. We decided, once we were moving, to grab seats opposite each other by a window, and to attempt to finish our books before dinner. Dinner, according to our map, had three classes—first, business, and coach—and, since we were in first, we had a separate dining room. I kept the map of the train with me as the beast started moving, and we moved from our cabin to attempt to find a place to sit. Once we did, we opened our books, our notepads on our laps and pencils ready, and settled in to read.

Dinner was served in the most beautiful dining room I'd ever seen—complete with white tablecloths, plush seats, and crystal chandeliers. Arnold and I decided on steaks with baked potatoes, green beans, and sparkling cider for dinner, as well as hot chocolate lava cake à la mode for dessert. As we waited for the waiter to bring us our dinner, we sipped at our sparkling cider and chatted amongst ourselves, taking the opportunity to look out the window more than once as the countryside flashing by before our eyes.

Dinner passed by as quickly as it had arrived and soon Arnold and I tired of walking aimlessly around the train and decided to head to bed. We were told that our stop would happen around three o'clock on Saturday afternoon. We slept until nine the following morning and cleaned up our cabin areas before showering and getting dressed, and then we picked out outfits to debut in New York. The hours passed quickly, and soon we were arriving in the station, standing close to the doors which would permit us outside and into New York for the first time. Once they opened, I forced myself not to run ahead to find Olga, although she was easy to spot through the crowd waiting, and I even recognized Harrison.

"Helga, you're here!" Olga said, clapping her hands and pulling me in for a hug as Harrison and Arnold shook hands. "How was the trip?"

"Good, thanks," I replied. "We had steaks last night."

"How lovely!" Olga said, looping her arm through mine as Harrison took my suitcase from my free hand.

"Are you having any morning sickness?" I asked. "I heard that it usually only happens in the first three months but I know it can vary from woman to woman and I don't want to upset you by mentioning potentially disgusting foods that could make you sick..."

Olga laughs. "It stopped around the twelfth week," she tells me patiently. "And the only thing that only really makes me sick is the scent of salt water."

"Salt water?" I ask.

She nods. "Yes, it's the weirdest thing," she comments as we walk towards the parking lot and towards a sleek-looking BMW, which will take us to their house, I presume. "It's about an hour drive back home, so you two should get comfortable," she says pleasantly as Harrison unlocks the car for all of us, still speaking to Arnold as they load our suitcases into the back. "Bessie will have dinner cooking when we get home, and Sylvia will give you all a tour."

"Bessie? Sylvia?" I ask as I get into the car behind Olga.

"Our cook and housekeeper," Harrison explains patiently, shooting me a smile as he gets into the drivers' seat. "We also have a butler, Terrance."

"A butler?" Arnold asks. "Cool."

"I also have two gentleman who are my assistant and stylist—Christoph is my assistant and Desmond is my stylist," Harrison continues as we make our way from the parking lot.

"And I've got two maids—Hattie and Jayne," Olga continues as we get closer and closer to the highway. "I'll loan one to you while you're here, Helga."

I raise my eyebrows. "A maid? Really?"

"High-society living, Helga," Olga tells me patiently, reaching into the backseat and patting my hand affectionately. "Experience it for a week, and you may not ever wish to go back."

We arrived at the house an hour and thirty minutes later, and were immediately shown around by Susie, who gave Arnold and me separate guest suites on opposite ends of the house. We were also given access to the game room—complete with both board and computer games, which also boasted a pool table and a trampoline room—as well as to the pool and hot tub outside. A small pool house was also outside, which housed the pool cleaning supplies in one room, pool accessories in the second room, and a sauna in the third.

Olga had told us to pack our bathing suits and thankfully I'd listened to her, although Mrs. Shortman had insisted upon buying me a new one when she and I had gone shopping. It was a stylish pink number, with a skirt at the bottom, slit down the middle to expose about an inch of my mid-stomach, and then the rest remained connected. As Olga told me all about what plans she had for us—lunches and dinners out, as well as getting lost in the shopping district—I noticed that Arnold and Harrison were getting along extremely well when we all sat around the table for dinner.

"I have to go into the office throughout the week," Harrison said to Arnold. "You can come with me if you like, some of the days."

"Yeah, that'd be great," Arnold said.

"There are also many impressive museums in New York," Harrison continued, this time addressing us both. "We can go tomorrow or perhaps on Friday. I get off work early on Friday and you three can meet me in the city, and we can drive back together at night. How does that sound?"

"Amazing," I put in, shocked at this impressive hospitality.

We decided to do a trip to town the following day, starting with the Central Park Zoo, the American Museum of Natural History, a break for lunch, and then Olga and I would do some shopping while Harrison and Arnold went around town and had some guy time. We left the house at eight-thirty to ensure to be one of the first people at the zoo that morning, and when we arrived, we were in luck. The big cats were my favorite, and it was especially wonderful to see them in their enclosures. I had a particularly soft spot for the snow leopards.

We continued on with our day, stopping for brunch at The Loeb Boathouse, just inside the park. The food was incredible, and Olga managed to get through the meal without being sick or nervous, due to the restaurant being literally on the water itself. After lunch, Arnold and Harrison went off while Olga hailed a taxi and the two of us went to all of these fabulous stores. I was careful not to ask for anything, but Olga insisted upon making me her Barbie doll for the afternoon, and bought me a wool and faux fur pink coat, matching hat, and pink heels. The last thing she bought me was a genuine pearl necklace, and dubbed me a 'little lady' as we carried our purchases to the meeting point.

Arnold and Harrison were already waiting for us, ice cream in both their hands, with Arnold holding a piece of paper. I saw that Harrison's eyes lit up when he saw Olga, pulling her into his arms and kissing her, and she giggled when she kissed him back. I turned to Arnold, who smiled and kissed my cheek, thankfully not getting any chocolate on my face. Olga then requested an ice cream as we loaded our purchases into the car, and Harrison acquiesced, taking our orders before walking towards the vender on the corner as Olga got into the car, leaving the door open for some air, placing a light hand on her swollen belly, lowering her eyes and smiling fondly down upon it.

"What's that?" I asked, leaning up against the car and nodding to the paper that Arnold was holding. "Looks important."

Arnold shrugs as Harrison pays the ice cream man and makes polite conversation with him. "Oh, I don't know about that," he says.

"Come on, tell me," I say lightly. "It's not a big deal, is it?"

Arnold sighs, before he allows his face to smile. "Well, actually, it _is_ kind of a big deal," he says as Harrison comes back with our ice creams.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says.

"So... Tell me," I say, smiling at him.

He sighs again. "Well, it's this architect competition," he says quietly as Harrison arrives, handing over my ice cream as well as Olga's before circling the car and getting in as Arnold and I move to do the same.

"A competition?" I ask, settling into the car and making an effort not to drip ice cream upon the fine leather upholstery.

"Kind of," he says as Harrison begins speaking to Olga in the front seat about our respective days. "You enter this contest and, whoever wins, gets to go to high school in New York, _but_ you get a scholarship to the department of Columbia University of your choice."

"So when you said 'architect' just now, you meant...?"

"It's the department I would choose, yeah," he says.

I purse my lips. "And are you going to enter?" I ask. "The competition?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I mean, there's no way they would pick me to actually be a part of this, right?"

"Well, they picked us for San Lorenzo," I say softly.

"Yeah, with _your_ help," he puts in.

I shrug. "I don't know," I say, still not wanting to take sole credit for that one. "Do the rules say anything about out-of-state entries?" I ask.

"Only that you need parental permission and must be fourteen by the time the contest happens," he replies.

"So, this would mean the summer after eighth grade, then?"

He nods. "Yeah, that's when they pick the kid who wins," he explains, scanning the rules to make sure he's not leaving anything out.

"Do you want to enter?" I ask.

He sighs, looking it over. "Honestly? Yeah. It's a great opportunity, and even if they refuse, I'll get a rejection letter and proof that I entered the contest in the first place, which would mean that I can put it in my college portfolio, when the time comes for that."

I nod. "Exactly," I tell him, selfishly relieved that he already seems set on losing the competition. "And, hey, there's no harm..."

He bites his lip before turning to look at me. "I mean, you wouldn't mind me entering the competition, would you?"

Immediately, I shake my head. "I'm not here to tell you what to do," I say. "It's not my decision. I can have an opinion, but that's where it ends. I'm not going to be some loud-mouthed girlfriend who demands that you put your dreams on hold for her. I mean, of course I like that you told me about it, and that you didn't go behind my back and just make the decision on your own. But I know what you want out of this life, Arnold, and if you want a little adventure, I'm not about to stand in your way of that."

Arnold smiles. "You're serious?"

I nod at him, knowing that I can't stop him even if I wanted to—and believe me, part of me did want to. Part of me wondered if, had I gone with him that day, would he have expressed interest in the contest in the first place. And then I also wondered, had he not gone to the museums, or New York, at all with me, then maybe he would consider another option...

"I am serious," I say, making sure that Olga and Harrison aren't looking before leaning over to him and brushing his lips. "You do you. And hey, like you said, even if you don't get it, you can keep the rejection letter."

Arnold laughs. "You always know just what to say."

I shrug. "One of us has to," I reply.


	7. Wildflowers are Forever

Chapter Seven: Wildflowers are Forever

Arnold and I returned from New York in one piece, slightly weighted down from all the excursions we'd gone on. We were sure to thank Olga and Harrison several times before we left, and they seemed eager to have us back again at some point in the near future. I knew that I was expected there at some point in the summer to meet my nieces and or nephews, and I was at Olga's command to do so, despite our next trip to San Lorenzo upon the horizon. When Mr. and Mrs. Shortman dropped me off back at my house in Hillwood, I thanked the two of them and said that I would see Arnold the following day at school.

My father was out with some employees from work when I arrived home around eight o'clock that evening, and my mother was in the living room. I was surprised when she followed me upstairs with a laundry basket, taking a bunch of my dirty clothes into it and telling me that she would wash them for me. I thanked her and answered every question she had about my trip to New York, giving over a jewelry box that contained the matching necklace and earring set that Olga and I had picked out for her on Fifth Avenue. My mother seemed touched and even gave me a hug, telling me that she knew then that she needed to be there for me more as she left my room, taking the laundry basket with her.

Shrugging off our interaction quickly—as I'd learned early on not to expect anything or depend on anyone—I took off my clothes and put them into the hamper into my bedroom and crossed to the bathroom to shower. It was nearing eight-thirty, and I still had to type up my notes for _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , as well as saving them to my flash drive, and print them out at the library before class the next morning. Pushing the thought from my mind, I turned on the shower, placing a new towel onto the sink, and waited for the temperature to be manipulated to one I was comfortable with.

I considered again the competition that Arnold had entered, and did my best to reassure myself of it. Tons of kids from all over the world likely entered the contest, as there were plenty like it, so it's not like he had a legitimate chance. It took me a moment for me to realize that, as his girlfriend, I was behaving totally and completely irrationally. As his girlfriend, I had an obligation to support him and his dreams for his future, no matter what my thoughts were on the subject. I had been honest enough with him, hadn't I, about missing him if he was to win the competition and leave Hillwood? _And besides_ , I consoled myself, _there's no automatic guarantee that his parents would even let him enter_...

I knew that anyone—Columbia University or no—would be lucky to have Arnold in any program he wanted to enter. And it was Ivy League, and Arnold was no idiot—nobody in their right mind would be willing to pass up such an opportunity like that. I continued to push and pull the thought from and into my mind, allowing myself to consider the road map of possibilities. The likelihood that Arnold and I would stay together if he went to New York was microscopic, but I knew that it wasn't fair—any of it. Him getting in, him not getting in; him staying with me and keeping it long distance; or him breaking it off with me forever.

I felt hot tears comingling with the hot water of the shower, and knew then that I was breaking down my reserve. Of course, if this was what Arnold wanted to do, then I had to support it. I wouldn't be the manipulative girlfriend who demanded that her boyfriend wait the mandatory three and a half years of high school before even considering where to go for college. I couldn't be like that; after working so hard to get Arnold, I knew that the chances of me losing him if he moved to New York multiplied drastically. Who was so say that he wouldn't follow his dreams and make something good? On the other side of it, however, I knew that the possibility of him finding someone superior to me as a partner in his personal life was too a great risk.

Turning off the water and dashing my tears from my eyes, I stepped out and felt relieved when the rug didn't slip out from under me. As I dried myself off, I heard the door unlock downstairs and my father greeting my mother. I was surprised when he said my name without contempt, asking if I had gotten home okay. My mother told him that I had, indicating the present for him of a model airplane I'd picked up for him at one of the museums that Olga and Harrison had taken Arnold and me to. I heard his enthusiasm about the gift and I smiled to myself as I walked into my bedroom, changing for bed and rebooting my laptop, scanning my notes before I plunked down at my desk to get to work.

. . .

 _Dear Helga,_

 _I was remembering our trip to New York this past week as we encroach upon Valentine's Day and just those beautiful walks stood out to me. With the tree branches bare and the pearl-white clouds behind them, and you just happy with everything in sight, it was the best trip, second only to our first trek down to San Lorenzo when you saved my parents. I remembered I called your name once, and when you turned to face me before answering, there was that bloom to your cheeks from the cool air, and that light in your eyes at my voice. Your hair blew in the light wind throughout Central Park that afternoon, and when you threw back your head to laugh whenever Harrison told a joke, I thought you looked so beautiful in your happiness that I never wanted it to stop._

 _We were happy, in those fleeting moments before I put my name onto the sign-up sheet for the competition, and even though you anticipated me actually entering it, I knew that you secretly wished I would change my mind, I wouldn't win it, or my parents wouldn't allow me to enter or go. I don't blame you for those fleeting thoughts, Helga; I think if the roles were reversed, and I was stuck in Hillwood without you, or without a support system, I think I would feel pretty terrible. You loved me so much, Helga, and I ruined it for you._

 _I still can't tell you what I've been working on, although I can say that it is a design project, because I am training to be an architect. We could design something of our choice, and let's just say, I think its some of my best work. Other than our relationship, I don't think I've ever put so much thought into anything. In the end, however, my thoughts weren't enough to make it work—you know it, and I know it. But I take sole responsibility for everything that happened, Helga; maybe if I'd been more thoughtful towards you instead of my future, I would have seen that you are that to me, my future._

 _Like so many men before me, I chose my career and livelihood over the one girl who loved me for myself. Not for one who thought I was something I'm not, or for one who wouldn't ever agree to think of me another way. By turning my back on you, Helga Pataki, I lost something far greater than my first love—my sense of self and my sense of purpose. We cannot live for one another, Helga, and I don't want you even considering doing so. You're a better person than to live for someone like me, who selfishly chose themselves over you. And although I regret my childish decision making, and wish that I could take it back, time travel does not exist, for if it did, I would have gone back a million times over._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

. . .

I handed in my notes to Mr. Simmons first thing the following morning, along with the rest of the class, and mentally crossed my fingers that no more extremely vital projects would be given outside of final projects and exams. Mr. Simmons didn't let on one way or another, and so I had to sit there inwardly seething, awaiting my appointment with Dr. Bliss after school that day. It was a miracle that she had managed to get me in so quickly, but we had lost a week since I'd gone to New York with Arnold for spring break.

I kept telling myself that I was overreacting—there was no way that out of the likely thousands upon millions of applicants that Arnold could have a real chance at winning the competition. Arnold had told me during the walk to school that morning that his parents had given him permission to enter, and had both signed the form on his behalf. So, he had verbal permission and written from his parents, so now all he had to do was write the essay, send it in, and then wait for over a year to find out whether or not he'd made it anywhere in the contest. I smiled all through the conversation, forcing myself not to believe that he would get anywhere within it, and that I was just kidding myself.

It was the beginning of the final week of April, which left the full month of May and the first two weeks of June left in the school year. Our tentative leaving date for the final school day was June fourteenth, and from school, the plan was to head directly to the airport with Mr. Shortman, Mrs. Shortman, Gerald, and Phoebe. My parents didn't have a care in the world about us leaving the country again that summer; in fact, Dad had actually taken off work, leaving his manager Larry Ambrose in charge of the store for a few weeks, while he and Mom went to New York to attend to Olga during her last few weeks of pregnancy.

I rolled my shoulders, getting to my feet as the bell rang for recess and as I got to the classroom door, I nearly gasped as Arnold took my hand. I squeezed his hand back, not wanting to give him just cause for worry as we headed outside. There was no longer that nip to the air; in fact, it seemed unseasonably warm that day, encroaching on the lower-seventies. I knew I'd have swap out my jeans for shorts if the weather continued like this, and I too wondered about my outfit for San Lorenzo that summer, and decided to make something in the coming weeks when, hopefully, the homework load began to trickle down.

Arnold and I sat down on our customary bench, which was thankfully not wet this morning, although the wood was still as badly splintered if not more so. I pulled my knees up towards my chin, settling my chin upon them as I watched the other carefree seventh-graders play, and wondered if I would ever allow myself that luxury of being so happy again. I turned to Arnold as he spoke a bit more about our trip to New York, answering questions or commenting when it was appropriate to do so.

"You're seeing Dr. Bliss after school?" he asked.

I nodded. "I am."

He nods back. "Listen, I know I've never asked before—and you don't have to answer me if you don't want to—but have you ever talked about me during a session? Any session?"

I lowered my eyes, picking a stray piece of fuzz from my jeans as I mulled over his question in my mind. "Of course I've talked about you," I reply.

"Before or after we got together?"

I sighed. "My first breakthrough with Dr. Bliss was when I admitted my feelings for you in our first session," I say quietly.

"When was that?" Arnold wants to know.

"Fourth grade," I reply. "I told her about my family's neglect of me and about how I just fell for you pretty much immediately... She said that I latched myself onto the only positive interaction I'd ever hand, and that was how my love for you truly happened and, well... Flourished, so to speak..."

"Was Dr. Bliss the only one who knew?"

I shake my head. "No," I reply. "Phoebe knows, of course, and Olga always suspected, although she and I weren't...you know...close. I frequently chalked it up to the age difference, of course—I mean, she's eleven years older than me. Just paints me even more as an accident...or a mistake..."

Arnold reaches across the space between us almost immediately and takes my hand in his. "You're not a mistake, Helga Pataki," he says quietly.

I turn to look at him. "Neither are you."

"And I know you're worried about the competition."

I feel my face flush. "What do you...?"

"I know you better than you think," he tells me with a smile. "Of course, I would have to by now."

"How did you even manage to pick up on it?" I whisper.

"It wasn't hard to do," he replies, squeezing my hand. "You've been a little quieter since I told you I intended to put my hat in the ring. It's not difficult to deduce that you're worried about the eventual outcome."

I feel myself hunching my shoulders. "It's not that I don't want you to get it," I tell him quietly. "It's just that..."

"What?" he asks.

"I'm worried what will happen if you _do_...get it," I say, relieved that I've managed to finally express my thoughts aloud. "I mean, selfishly, I'm wondering what will happen to us..."

"There are trains, and planes, and automobiles," Arnold says, and I turn to look up at him in time to see him smirk at his ability to make a joke. "We could switch off who comes to see who. And besides, Olga lives in New York, and Columbia University is only two hours from her house..."

"Are you suggesting that we attempt to maintain this relationship long-distance?" I ask him, in utter disbelief.

Arnold smiles. "I'm not breaking up with you, Helga—even if we were opposite ends of the world, I would simply wait."

"That's a thirteen-year-old talking," I say, shaking my head.

"Almost fourteen," Arnold puts in.

"Well, in any case, it's idealistic, of course, to remain in only one relationship for the rest of your life," I say, shrugging my shoulders. "And besides, who knows what being in New York long-term will mean for you?" I ask him. "You'll have the whole college thing occupying your mind, and then there's the notion that you'll ultimately meet someone else..."

Arnold squeezes my hand more tightly. "There _is_ nobody else, Helga," he tells me in a firm voice.

I shake my head at him again. "How can you know that?"

"Because I do," he tells me, looking around before leaning in and brushing his lips with mine. "Even I know that."

I shake my head at him a third time, and find a laugh escaping my mouth. "You're always going to be a Football Head," I mutter.

Arnold smiles, reaching into his jacket pocket and handing me a folded piece of paper and nods for me to unfold it. "Go on," he says encouragingly.

"Did you write me a poem?" I joke, letting go of his hand and unfolding the paper slowly. I raise my eyebrows when I see the title—COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY COMPETITION FOR YOUNG APPLICANTS – APPLY TO THE DEPARTMENT OF YOUR CHOICE. I turn and look at him then, mouth agape. "What is this?"

"The application form," he replies. "I made a copy of it in case you wanted to enter it with me."

I blink. "I—uh," I manage to get out, scanning the requirements, the deadline of June 1, 2019 staring back at me. "Are you sure?" I ask, peeking up at him from behind the paper.

"Of course I'm sure," Arnold says, offering me a pen from his pocket. "I mean, if you really want to..."

I smile, taking the pen. "For you, anything," I say, writing _Helga Pataki_ beside the blank spot for 'name'.

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _I just found the application for the contest when I entered; for some reason, they actually sent my copy back to me after news that you'd won. I can see the eagerness behind my handwriting; not just to make you happy, but also to grasp a little at the girl I could've been. An Ivy League girl with a new lease on life, able to start over in a new place. I think that's what we all want, right? The ability to start afresh somewhere else, with total strangers watching your every move..._

 _And then I just described every mediocre reality show on the planet, most likely to be produced by TLC. Don't even get me started on reality shows; can barely afford Netflix as it is, and I've been binge-watching season five of_ The Crown _. What an amazing thing it is, to see how another government handles things. I think it's fascinating to see what a monarchy does to a country, and what it is as a whole, and how relationships are affected and created by it._

 _I know I'm not allowed to ask you about the project—of course I know that even some things are privileged. I don't fault you for not telling me; I know it's a risk we had to take once you moved to follow your dreams. I think a part of me knew that we couldn't have the same relationship, and even though we had ideals and hopes and dreams to the contrary, obviously, it didn't work out that way. How I wish the eventual outcome had happened differently, but beggars can't allow themselves to be choosers, and since this is the only outlet I have outside of school other than work, I have to make it be all right somehow._

 _Speaking of work, I am currently writing this on my dinner break. Sometimes, if I have enough, I order a meal from the diner. Tonight's special is chicken fried steak—best in town. I always ask for it without gravy, though, because ours is kind of fatty, and I'm watching my figure. Not like I'm going to prom—I don't want to waste money I literally don't have. There's still frost on the ground outside, but in a few weeks, the world around us will be green again._

 _My boss is telling me that my break is over, so I've got to go. I have to do what he says, because I'm one of his better workers and I can't lose this job. Of course, in a perfect world or situation, I wouldn't have to bust my butt, but that's the world we live in now... Happy Valentine's Day, Football head._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

. . .

"How did the trip to New York go?" Dr. Bliss asked pleasantly at our session later that same afternoon. "Was it everything you thought it would be?"

I nod. "Well, of course," I reply. "That and more. But..."

"Yes?" Dr. Bliss asks, her pen forever poised.

"Arnold's entering this competition that he heard about at one of the museums," I say in a rush.

"That sounds like fun," she says. "What's the competition?"

"You would go to Columbia University and study in a department of your choosing and go to high school in New York as sort of a combined program," I say quietly.

"And you're worried what it means for the two of you?"

I nod. "Well, of course. I mean, part of me thinks that we're on a fast track to breaking up because of the inevitable distance that his hypothetical winning the contest would mean..."

"Is there something else?"

I nod again. "Yeah. Yeah, Arnold asked me to enter the contest, too."

"And did you?"

I sigh. "I did. Arnold copied his entry form and gave me a copy and I wrote my essay during lunch and I mailed it before the bus ride over here..."

Dr. Bliss raises her eyebrows. "Half an hour to write an essay? You couldn't have put much thought into it..."

"We just had to talk about our living situations and what we like to do on a daily basis—things like that," I reply. "I touched upon our various trips to San Lorenzo and our eventual going there again this summer. I can only hope that they read it at all, but I'm not really invested in it..."

"Did you only enter the contest because Arnold suggested it?"

I sigh. "Admittedly, yes. I just didn't want to disappoint him. And he said it would be fun to hope for the same thing..."

"But he wants to win it, doesn't he?" she asks.

"Of course he does," I reply.

"And do you have any interest in winning at all?"

I shrug my shoulders. "No, not really. I mean, I'm not denying that it would be an amazing experience as a whole, but it's just not my thing..."

"How do you feel about Arnold's investment in the competition?"

I sigh. "I'm scared," I say softly. "I'm scared that they'll realize his full potential and offer it up to him on the spot. I'm scared that he'll actually accept the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and move away. I'm scared of the possibility of him declining it out of loyalty to me and ultimately resenting me forever. I'm scared of our relationship suffering if he leaves. I'm scared of our relationship suffering if he stays..."

"Have you told him all this?"

I shrug. "Not in so many words—I didn't want him _not_ to enter. I told him I wouldn't be selfish that way, but now I feel like I am being selfish because of all these worries I'm having..."

"Showing concern for hypothetical outcomes isn't selfish, Helga," Dr. Bliss tells me gently. "You care a great deal about Arnold..."

"I love him," I say quietly.

Dr. Bliss smiles. "I know. And you're afraid that if you come clean about this whole situation and how it is you're feeling, that you might make him angry. Or worse, that you might lose him."

"I don't want that," I say quietly. "I don't want either of those things to happen. I guess I was freaked out enough about confessing my feelings both times... I mean, he's boyfriend now and he _still_ doesn't know about his likeness made out of wads of his used bubble gum," I tell her.

"And the shrine?" Dr. Bliss asks.

"No, only Olga really knows about that," I say quietly. "But I have mentioned the poetry a few times, and he seems fine with that..."

"Helga, you have to remember that you and Arnold are only thirteen-years-old, and not many people so young are in relationships of this caliber or intensity," Dr. Bliss says kindly. "However, honesty is always the best policy, no matter what. I mean, suppose the roles were reversed you were really excited about entering this competition. Would you want Arnold to be worried about the outcome of you possibly winning, but not share it with you?"

I sigh and shake my head. "No. No, of course not."

"Well, there you go," she says gently to me, smiling. "Just remember to be calm and present all the facts. Don't accuse him of anything—remember, he's just filling out the forms. There's no way of knowing if he'll win, but you do have to keep an open mind about it, should he win."

I nod. "Got it."

"When do you see him again?"

"Tonight, after this," I say softly. "I'm having dinner at the boarding house again tonight, and Mrs. Shortman is going to show me the art of making a perfect salad, and a vegetable side dish."

Dr. Bliss smiles. "I'm so glad you've got a support network there, Helga."

I laugh a little. "Hey, it had to happen sometime... I don't know what I would've done if Mr. and Mrs. Shortman didn't like me at all..."

"Well, you _did_ save their lives in San Lorenzo," Dr. Bliss says. "You should really consider selling your journals from your trips down there, Helga. It's so worldly and imaginative and amazing... It has the makings of a great autobiography, or you could even adapt it into a novel, if you wanted to..."

I smile. "Maybe one day," I say. "But I don't know if everyone out there is ready to know about the Green-Eyed people, Dr. Bliss. I think they need a little more time to adjust..."

"To what?" Dr. Bliss wants to know.

"Well, maybe not general society, but the people of Hillwood," I say. "They need to adjust to the notion fully that I never hated Arnold, and that he and I are a legitimate couple."

"Have you adjusted to it?" Dr. Bliss asks.

I nod, getting to my feet. "Yeah," I say quietly. "Yeah. I think I have."

. . .

The final day of seventh grade couldn't come fast enough, and everyone was squirming in their seats, waiting for the proper hand to go over the twelve, which would issue out a school-wide bell, thus propelling us firmly into our final, final year of middle school. The plan that day after school got out was simple: Clean out our lockers, then high-tail it outside where we would quickly run to our respective houses, drop off our school supplies, and then meet back at the boarding house for a ride to the airport. At home, I would have to take my roller suitcase, and check my carry-on for snacks, my passport, and anything else I would need for the impending flight to Central America.

The last week of April and the whole month of May had seemed to speed by; it did not come as a shock when Arnold called in the third week of May, telling me that he had finished his essay and had mailed off his competition form. I expressed my hope for him and best of luck, no longer allowing my anxiety to get to me. As the time continued to fly by, and as June arrived, the daunting experience that we would be in our last year of middle school was shocking to me. Of course, we had all seen it coming—it had to be on the eventual horizon, but never in a million years did I think that it would come so quickly.

Mr. Simmons thanked us again for being a wonderful class, and reminded us that we would still be in his class the following year. It no longer mattered to me which teachers we had anymore; I'd grown accustomed to Simmons, and, after he'd given me an A+ on my second midterm, he was officially no longer a complete weirdo—at least, in my book. Mr. Simmons continued his lecture about having a safe summer, and we promised to be as safe as the general situations permitted. I looked up at the clock again, the hand darting closer and closer to the twelve—we were to be dismissed at three as opposed to three-thirty that day, giving us all the more time for our last-minute trip preparations.

Finally, the bell rang and, collectively as a student body, we flung ourselves out of our chairs with communal shouts at the notion that we were no longer seventh graders—we were officially _eighth_ graders. Turning to Arnold, I let out another happy scream as I ran to him, and we hugged each other in exultation before we ran into the hallway, many other students streaming out of their respective classrooms, to clean out our lockers. Large trashcans and recycle bins had been pushed into the hallways by the custodians for our use, and everyone began the frenzy of sticking the various assignments or keepsakes into their backpacks worthy of filing away, and the rest was put into the respective waste reciprocals to be hauled to a landfill or recycling plant.

"Can you believe it's over?" Arnold asked me.

I laughed, sticking our funny photographs into the side pocket of my backpack. "I guess some of me has to," I reply. "I mean, it _is_ June. And we are getting older every day..."

"Are you glad it's over?" he wants to know.

I nodded. "Sure, any opportunity to go back to San Lorenzo," I reply. "I think the Green-Eyed princess still likes you..."

Arnold laughs. "She's pretty," he allows, "but she's hardly my type. I think I have a thing for blonde hair and pink bows..."

I lightly punch him in the arm, tossing my hair—secured in a ponytail with my signature pink bow—and let out another laugh as I move to continue cleaning my locker—there were quite a few unnecessary keepsakes inside it. "Well, that's comforting to hear, at least," I say at last.

Arnold smiles, taking off some pictures he has with Gerald during a 'Best Friends Day' spirit day we'd had before Christmas. "One can't assume that I'd even consider cheating on you, Helga," he says quietly. "You'd probably formally introduce me to Old Betsy and the Five Avengers."

I lower my hands down to my fingers. "Well, they know who you are," I tell him in a soft voice, "but I don't think you've been formally introduced. It's not like you've exhibited behavior that warrants an introduction anyhow," I say quickly with a nervous laugh.

Arnold laughs. "Well, I'm glad about that," he says, scanning his locker for anything else before slamming it. "Done?" he asks me.

Standing on my toes, I find nothing on the high shelf so I nod, gathering the last few bits of paper and throwing them into the recycling bin. "All finished," I tell him, turning to see Phoebe and Gerald just finishing up. "How are you two coming along?" I ask, shutting my locker.

"Fine," Phoebe says, shutting her locker carefully. "Gerald?"

"Mmm- _mmm_!" Gerald says approvingly to a photograph of him with Phoebe on our trip to San Lorenzo the summer before as he too slams his locker. "Ready when you are," he says, taking Phoebe's hand.

"Ready," Arnold says, taking my hand.

We walk outside and down the steps of the school, our backpacks considerably lighter after having shed the extra pounds of paper. We walk down towards the first crossing, getting across quickly and towards the final block of walking together, before we will separate before I leave Phoebe and go home on my own and finish packing. As we get to the divide, Gerald and Arnold wave to Phoebe and me before we continue alone and towards our own homes. I say goodbye to Phoebe before she goes up the stairs to her own house, telling her that I will see her in a few minutes when I come back.

I run the rest of the way to my house, eager to get there before anything untoward happens and, thankfully, I make it. With Dad at work and having said goodbye to me before leaving that morning, I call a 'hello' to my mother as I dash inside, the door shutting behind me. I run up the stairs to my bedroom, finding my suitcase beside my bed where I'd left it, and my carry-on bed placed on the edge of my bed, waiting for me. I smile to myself, taking off my backpack and setting it down on my computer chair, feeling quite warm in my last day of school outfit. I take it off and put on my khaki pants, belt, thick socks, hiking boots, and tank top before adjusting my ponytail.

"Ready," I say to myself, looking into the mirror as I put my cell phone onto its charger, knowing that it wouldn't make sense to bring it to San Lorenzo anyhow, due to there being no bars to speak of. "San Lorenzo, take three," I say with a laugh as I grab my suitcase and carry-on and going downstairs.


	8. Catch Me Before I Fall

Chapter Eight: Catch Me Before I Fall

The airport is as crowded as could be expected, and we are not the only student-looking teenagers lurking around, looking for their respective gates. It seems as if, considering as this is the last day of school, that people want to get out of Hillwood as quickly as possible. Not that I blame them; now that the whole responsibility of school has gone out the window for the mandatory twelve weeks, people want to forget they had any responsibilities in the first place. As Mr. and Mrs. Shortman finally get their turn at the check-in counter, we are then made to hand over our passports in an efficient and timely manner so that we look as if we are all there willingly and not against our will.

Once the passports are scrutinized enough, they are stamped and passed back to Mr. Shortman, who disperses them to us all as we make our way to the baggage check line. We each present our larger suitcase, and hand over a pair of twenties to Mr. Shortman when he asks for them, keeping our carry-on bags as close as possible without looking too suspicious towards the airport security, who lurk around every corner, possibly dressed as civilians. Once our larger bags have been marked and taken away, we are then permitted to move to the security line, which expectantly stretches far beyond the barriers provided. Talking amongst ourselves for the forty-minute wait, our hands gripping our identification for this next check-point, I wonder what would happen if someone were to say duck under the ropes and make a run for it.

"Probably get tackled by security," Arnold puts in when I randomly pose the question to him.

Gerald turns to look at him. "Not if they look like me," he puts in, his tone, normally so pleasant, now grave. "We live in strange times, Arnold, and we all have to look over our shoulders constantly."

Arnold nods. "Sorry, man."

Gerald shakes his head. "Hey, it's not your fault," he replies.

"Wish there was something we could do about it," Phoebe puts in softly, taking Gerald's hand.

"You could be a good lawyer, Phoebe," I tell her.

Phoebe grins. "Maybe someday, Helga. Maybe someday."

We continue through the security line, gripping onto our passports in the event of presenting them to the officials when commanded to do so. Finally, our turn arrives and we approach the high tables, Mr. and Mrs. Shortman in the lead, ready to explain themselves as goodwill workers and presenting their own passports, along with the written consent of Gerald's, Phoebe's, and my parents, just as we have done these last couple of years. Once these important pieces of paperwork are properly scrutinized, our own passports are looked over and examined until, at last, we are given permission to walk on.

We approach the plastic tubs and the long line with them, removing our shoes and anything metallic, along with our vests, as it always seemed to be drafty in the Hillwood Airport. Once everything offensive was taken off our bodies, we made our way through the metal detectors and, thankfully, were not brought over by the airport security for any serious questioning. We gathered up our belongings, hopping to get into our shoes quickly, and ventured towards the gate waiting areas while Mr. Shortman explained that our gate number was H8, which was, in my humble opinion, hilarious. There was a coffee stand close by our gate, and we were given permission—as the line wasn't very long and we had at least twenty minutes to wait—to buy a drink and a snack before the loading process began.

"Hmmm, coffee cake or blueberry scone?" I muttered to myself as I peered through the clear glass window, which showed off all the baked goods. "Chocolate chip cookie or brownie...?"

The four of us decided on various Frappuccino's because, when you're thirteen, you're too old for fruit juice or chocolate milk and too young to understand the appeal of the bitterness in coffee. Arnold ordered his mother an iced mocha and his father an iced drip coffee and brought them over to them, and they looked pleased that their son had thought of them. He also brought his father a generous slice of pumpkin bread and his mother a cinnamon raisin bagel; it took a special person to enjoy raisins in anything, at least, that was what I thought.

As we ate our snacks and drank our drinks, we watched as, over the next five minutes, the passengers from the former flight proceeded to exit the plane. The flight attendants explained that we would be boarding shortly and that first class, of course, would be boarding first. That never made sense to me, for other than the obvious reason of paying more, the coach section had to drag themselves around the first-class passengers in order to get to their own seats. Just because you were in coach, you had to be inconvenienced whilst boarding the plane? It just seemed like something that would never make sense to me...

It came as a complete surprise when Mr. Shortman announced that he had won a frequent flyer miles contest and, with that bonus, he had upgraded us to first-class a couple of weeks ago. When the flight attendant gave the word, we were among the first people to board, and I was excited to see that Mr. and Mrs. Shortman had agreed that Arnold and I would be sitting together. It was equally moving when Arnold offered me the window seat, something that was not lost on me...

" _Ohhh_!" I whispered, before forcing myself to snap out of it and almost stumbled into my seat.

"Do you enjoy flying?" Arnold asked, getting into his seat beside me and making sure both sides of his seatbelt were accessible. "You never talk about it much. I mean, sometimes... You sometimes fall asleep and other times you're just staring out the window..."

"I _like_ looking out the window," I reply emphatically, as if it's the grandest thing in the world—which, of course, on a plane, it is merely a close second to sitting next to _the_ Arnold Shortman. "Always have..."

"Why?" Arnold asks.

I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe because my mom would sit with me on the various plane trips for years and would pass out after having a smoothie... And then Dad and Olga would sit together and _always_ have something to talk about. I guess you could say I used the window as an escape route..."

"An escape route?"

"Yeah," I say quietly, fumbling with the reflective buckle of my seatbelt. "An escape route. I would look down at the wide expanses of land as we flew over them and wonder, for a moment before we touched down—when houses became more visible beneath the clouds—what it was like to live there. What it would've been like to be in a different family—a family that could love and appreciate me and not constantly compare or forget me when it came to another sibling..."

"But things with Olga are good now..."

I nod. "Yeah, _really_ good," I say, the passion returning to my tone. "I just... I don't know, I think I'm always going to be on my guard with her. You know, for all those years that she could have done something about Mom and Dad favoring her, but didn't. But I can't honestly say what I would do—you know, if the roles were reversed and I was always, or suddenly, my parents' favorite..."

"Would you even want that?" Arnold asks, placing his arm upon the arm rest and offering me his hand. "To be the favorite?"

I shrug, staring at the offered hand. "I don't know," I reply.

"I remember you telling me about that conversation you had with Olga—about her being clearly favored by your mom and dad," he says quietly, automatically wrapping his hand around mine when I place mine in his. "You told me about all the pressure—to make perfect grades and stuff like that—and Olga said that _you_ were the one who had it easy. Sure, you had all that anger and resentment towards your family, but it's better now—or slightly, right? I mean, now that you have me, and are on good terms with Olga..."

I nod. "It's not something I can just guess at, you know?" I say quietly. "The whole 'What if?' this and 'If they had shown me more attention in this situation' that. I'm actually starting to like myself as a person, Arnold, and I have no idea what I would be like if the roles were suddenly reversed or if I'd always been their favorite or something..." I find myself hunching my shoulders then, embarrassment flooding through me as I force myself to say, "I guess what I'm trying to get at here is, for one thing, I'm scared that if I was different, you wouldn't..."

"What?" Arnold asks, squeezing my hand until I look at him. "Tell me."

When I force myself to look up at him, the words come tumbling out before I can stop myself from uttering them. "You wouldn't have developed feelings for me," I tell him then, feeling sheepish at even bringing it up. "Maybe I'd be some carbon copy of Lila—a less-attractive rip-off that you'd known all your life, and wasn't seen as particularly exotic, because Lila had the whole new student factor thing going for her since the beginning—and you would've seen me as a friend or something and never..."

Arnold leans across the seats and kisses me, and I find my eyes shooting open then as he cups my cheek, mid-kiss, before pulling back. "Well?" he asks.

"What?" I whisper.

"Does _that_ answer your question?" he asks.

I feel myself flush all over. "Somewhat," I manage to reply.

. . .

 _Dear Helga,_

 _I was remembering the notion that we had when we were kids—that once we reached thirteen, it would be all uphill from there. A later curfew, a larger allowance, more privileges—things like that. We still didn't like the bitterness of coffee, and we especially didn't like the bitter dose of reality coming our way. It was all just around the bend, but even I didn't expect it to happen—any of it. I still wish I could take it back, our almost-fight in San Lorenzo. When I blew something way out of proportion, but you forgave me—instantly._

 _I suppose I should consider the notion of how much you loved me, and that was why the forgiveness was so quick. It had to be that, right? That, or you were just so tired of conflict in your life that you didn't want to be in the middle of it anymore. I can understand that, Helga, but I shouldn't have said what I said. It was nearly as unforgivable and shameful as when I left Hillwood for New York, and god knows I would change that if I could. I'd change all of it, because I meant what I said—you do deserve better; better than me._

 _I went on a walk around New York today; mostly just with my long overcoat on, and allowing myself to look through the late-February frost-bitten windows. I even noticed some couples having dinner together—maybe their schedules only managed to line up for a Valentine's Day date after the fact. That, or maybe all the decent restaurants were booked solid the day of, which is conceivable, due to all this haute and gourmet cuisine around New York. I saw some of them spoon-feeding each other—they looked like they were eating a squid-ink pasta for an entrée, some overpriced caviar for an appetizer, and some unappetizing bread pudding for dessert. I'll never understand couples and their food..._

 _Maybe me coming here and seeing what I'm supposedly missing in the modern dating world was one positive aspect of my move. Of course, something tell me that after our little dinner mishap a few years ago, that you wouldn't want to risk a repeat of that evening. You were never one for severely added frills; hell, whenever you came over for a holiday dinner at the house, you squirmed in your seat and I remember you asking me more than once why we couldn't order a pizza. I'm sure some boyfriends would be offended, due to all the work my family put into those meals and the decorations, but I wasn't. It just endeared me even more to you, and it made me want you in my life even more. It still does..._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

. . .

We touch down at the San Lorenzo Airport and I immediately peer through the window, for I know that I won't have my weather app to rely on. The balmy sun streams in through the window, and my heart skips a beat at returning to this land that even I feel is magical. When we are given permission to de-board the plane, we don't ask twice and immediately file towards the exit in as much of an orderly fashion as four thirteen-year-olds can do. Mr. and Mrs. Shortman were able to direct us quickly to baggage claim, and as we made our way through the airport to retrieve our luggage, a sense of calm washed over me at the comfort this trip always seemed to bring me, as Arnold looped his hand in mine.

"It's warmer already," he remarks quietly.

I nod. "Yeah. Well, we've gone down south and we _are_ in another continent at the moment... Can't think why it wouldn't be."

Arnold grins. "Are you excited?"

I turn and peek at him. "Maybe... If the princess agrees to keep her distance from you this year," I reply wryly.

Arnold laughs. "I've already told you—she's not my type," he replies, his tone patient as we arrive at the edge of baggage claim, searching for our various pieces of luggage.

"First trip of the summer is officially a-go," I say quietly to him as our bags come along the carousel.

"You mean our trip to New York in August to meet the twins?" he asks, making a grab for my bag and handing it to me before diving for his.

I nod. "That's right."

"Have you heard from her?" he wants to know, carefully placing his suitcase onto the ground beside mine. "Olga?"

I nod. "Yeah, just before we left. She says that she's doing fine and that the air-conditioning is officially getting a workout."

Arnold takes me by the hand again as we proceed to follow everyone outside, where our rented tan-colored Jeep is waiting to take us to the kingdom of the Green-Eyed people. "Any cravings?" he asks.

I laugh. "Just pickles and ice cream—man, even her pregnancy has proven to be stereotypical," I say to myself, amused as Arnold and I move to climb into the back of the car with the rest of the luggage.

Arnold laughs. "Really makes you wonder what you'll crave, you know?"

I turn to Arnold, feeling my brows knitting together. "What are you talking about now, Football Head?" I ask him.

"You know—when you have kids," he replies.

"You're assuming you won't have kids with me?" I ask, finding that I am laughing at the very notion of having a baby. "Clever..."

"Well, I'm just assuming you'll want kids..."

I laugh again. "After my upbringing? Please..."

"You don't want to have children someday?" Arnold asks as Mr. Shortman climbs into the driver's seat and starts up the car. "Really?"

I scoff at that. "Arnold, come _on_. I'm thirteen-years-old. I hardly need to decide now whether or not I'll have kids..."

"I want kids," Arnold replies quietly, flipping one of the zippers on the suitcases back and forth.

I turn and look at him. "You do?" I ask.

Arnold nods. "Yeah. I mean..." He trails off before turning to look at me. "I don't know, it just always seemed like something that would happen for me... I mean, in the eventual sense, you know?"

I nodded. "Emphasis on the term 'eventual'. Like I said, we're only thirteen," I say, this time a bit more firmly, as Mr. Shortman pulls out of the airport parking lot area and down the road. "It's not like we have to make a choice now."

Arnold and I continue to make small talk as Mr. Shortman navigates down the road, which turns from concrete to dirt after a couple of hours. We drive through the jungle itself and soon we arrive at the final destination that we can get to by car, and so we all climb out and grab our things. Walking along the jungle floor with Mr. and Mrs. Shortman as our guides is, of course, less of a daunting experience than it was the first time Arnold, Gerald, and I found ourselves wandering beneath these trees. Of course, this time, Lasombra is not following us, which would make the journey a whole lot more peaceful.

We trek though the deeper jungle, the floor itself becoming harder, as we are coming to 'off the beaten track' territory and not many people make this journey much anymore. When we finally arrive to the steep incline, all the little children in their animal skins appear, as they always do, and start chanting for Arnold. I find myself laughing at this, as I vow to do every year now, and feel a rush of happiness when Arnold, again, refuses the throne, instead preferring to walk with me. We arrive at the stone bridge and walk across it carefully, and I am reminded of being suspended by the rope bridge for dear life two years ago, as well as the romantic walk Arnold and I took the year before.

We walk through the gates and into the kingdom, and the king and queen greet Mr. and Mrs. Shortman warmly, and we are all escorted to our rooms. Mr. and Mrs. Shortman are quickly led away by the monarchs to show them something or other, and Arnold and Gerald take off after them, while Phoebe and I do our best to set our room to rights, for she and I will be bunking together for the next several weeks as we complete our third trip here. I do my best to place my suitcase up against a back wall, out of the way, while Phoebe moves to do the same, staring out the window at the setting sun.

"How's Olga doing in New York?" she asked.

"Fine, thank you," I reply. "She's feeling a bit warm, but that's usually the case in advanced pregnancy, and the weather, of course..."

"Of course," Phoebe says, smiling. "Did she come up with names yet? I know you mentioned the four, but has she narrowed it down yet?"

I nod. "I think so, but she wants it to be a surprise."

Phoebe smiles. "That makes sense," she tells me. "Do you have any guesses on the gender of the twins? Boys? Girls?"

I laugh. "If they're lucky, they'll be thick-headed boys who won't care after a dozen years when Olga inevitably lapses into our mother's behavior..."

Phoebe looks shocked that I would say such a thing. "I thought things were going well with Olga," she says softly, shaking her head at me. "Have you lost faith in her so quickly?"

I sigh. "No, it's not that," I reply, leaning up against the stone wall. "I guess I'm just afraid that the Pataki gene will go on and that the neglect will continue. I just don't want another me out there, Phoebe. I mean, after all I've been through, I would never wish that on anyone else..."

"Helga..."

"...I'm afraid that Olga will have a daughter, or two, and love one over the other. I think, at first, it'll be a subconscious thing, you know?" I say, feeling my voice beginning to break. "One daughter will talk first, and say 'Mama' instead of 'Dada', while the other one just says 'Dada', because they can't help it, and it is the easier word to sound out—out of the two, I mean..."

Phoebe looks desperate as she watches me then. She knows that I am spiraling, and that I am at the point of no return. She wants to stop me, she really does, but she just doesn't know how to do it. "Helga..."

"And then Olga may think that her other daughter doesn't love her as much, so she'll favor the 'Mama' daughter... And then the 'Mama' kid will want to shadow her for a job, or for a Heritage Day at school, or just make good grades... Regardless, Phoebe, there's always going to be a favorite," I say, my tone becoming deadpan as I dash the tears from my eyes. "You don't know how it truly feels until or unless it has happened to you. I'm just so thankful that you, Arnold, and Gerald never had to feel that way by your family. Even Rhonda didn't—and she has everything, including being an only child..."

Phoebe crosses the small room and pulls me into her arms for a hug and, to my surprise, I don't push her away. Instead, I latch my arms around her and place my head onto her shoulder. A moment later, I feel my entire body quivering, and the distinct notion that Phoebe's shirt has become wet. It occurs to me a moment later that I have let my guard down, and I am now weeping because of the notion that history will repeat itself.

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Springtime is suddenly just around the corner; I used to adore the cold growing up, but we had so many memories involving snow that now, it's not as special to me and truly seems to emphasize my loneliness. With my birthday a mere two weeks away, all I can think of is that I'm nearly seventeen and that I'll be a whole year closer to opening that gift I found. I still have no idea what it is or what it could be, but I'm slowly but surely becoming impatient to figure it out. Sometimes I'll take it down from the high shelf in my closet and just inspect it—running my hands over the sides of the box, pressing my ear to it, or just resting my cheek upon it, knowing that you once held it and placed things inside especially for me, and perhaps, in that moment, things were a little less complicated._

 _But things were never so simple between us, Football Head—even when we got back from San Lorenzo the first time, sometimes I felt like I was walking on eggshells. Not from anything I was afraid of... No, that's a lie; I was always afraid, Arnold—afraid to open up to someone, anyone, romantically, in that way. The thought that I could lose you at any given time frightened me, and had I known then what I know now—that we would have three and a half years of blissful happiness, I would have done so many things differently. I would have not resented you for your perfect, yet odd, family life; I would have not squirmed in my seat during holiday meals with your family, and would have been instead grateful that you had me over at all; but most of all..._

 _Most of all, Arnold, I wouldn't have ever tried to make you feel badly for making the decision to move to New York. that's What I regret most of all—you were just following your dreams, and by me acting the way I did, I could have potentially ruined them for you. At the time, it was what I planned to do—have you become so disgusted with the idea of moving to New York that maybe, just maybe, you would stay in Hillwood with me, and with everyone else. I know life isn't supposed to work that way—stamping your feet until the other person gives in and gives you what you want—but I figured it was worth a try._

 _I've been blaming you for everything here, Arnold, and I shouldn't keep doing that because, truth is, I'm partially to blame. Maybe if we had sat down and discussed this like fourteen-year-olds instead of four-year-olds, things would've worked out differently. The screaming matches weren't necessary, and I know that because that's not how problems are solved—my parents are a direct example of that. I never wanted to become my parents, but in those moments, leading up to you going to New York, I became my worst nightmare—I became my father. For that, I take sole responsibility, and for as long as I live, I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself for what I did to you, let alone what I did to turn myself into that monster who attempted to raise me._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

. . .

I don't share my anxiety with Arnold all throughout the trip, although he does call me on my 'strange behavior' more than once. He claims that I have jungle fever and that we really should start to communicate better. Finally, his mother comes to talk to him, telling him to lay off me. Of course, she only does so after I've given her the edited version of my conversation with Phoebe, which she takes to heart. I am relieved when she tells Arnold to take it easy with me, and to not push me so hard and, thankfully, he does not.

The rest of our trip in San Lorenzo goes by smoothly, and Arnold and I fly from there solo to New York in the third week of August, one week before the departure date from everyone else. Since I did not bring any form of technology with us on the trip, I am unable to contact anyone in New York but, thankfully, Harrison is waiting for us when we arrive at LaGuardia Airport. He embraces me and shakes Arnold's hand before navigating us—and our luggage—to the car, explaining that Olga is resting (with the babies for bonding purposes) and that he encourages us to freshen up when we arrive.

"Bessie is preparing a wonderful welcome dinner for the two of you," Harrison states from the front seat as we drive along the freeway. "Steaks, her signature baked macaroni and cheese, Caesar salad, green beans, and..." He says, peeking at us from the rearview mirror when traffic comes to a standstill, drumming the palms of his hands onto the steering wheel, "...hot chocolate lava cake that she managed to get from the train company."

"Train company?" Arnold asks.

"The train you came on," Harrison replies patiently, as traffic gets moving again, as he steps on the gas pedal. "Bessie called them herself after she remembered how much you and Helga enjoyed it."

"Wow," I say, shocked. "That was really nice of her."

"Think nothing of it—she has a very generous salary," Harrison says with a smile as we get closer and closer towards the correct exit. "However, she's going to be making individual ones—so one for each of us and ones for the servants. I like to keep my workers well-paid."

"That's generous of you," Arnold says.

Harrison then goes on to tells us the highs and lows of working on Wall Street, and Arnold and I are just able to keep up with the conversation. We ask all the right questions, and smile and nod when we think it is appropriate to do so. When Harrison pulls off at the exit, however, we immediately breathe a mental sigh of relief—while we knew that we had to be polite to Harrison, we certainly didn't have to care much about his line of work.

We arrive at the house and Harrison lets us out as a pair of servants come out and take the bags inside for us. Arnold and I are shown to the same suite of rooms that we were each put in the last time, with the reminder to freshen up. We are then told that we have permission to stay in our rooms or go to the game room until dinner, and I wonder which one Arnold will choose. The showers' water pressure is perfect on my muscles—which ache from traveling all day—and I am relieved to get into an outfit _not_ jungle appropriate.

Arnold and I meet in the game room, switching on the flat screen and hastily skipping over what must've been the twentieth season of _Keeping Up with the Kardashians,_ because how many seasons of that show were needed, really? I felt secure upon the large, modern couch when Arnold took my hand. If I thought I was losing him for not being as communicative as I should have been, those fears were now long gone. Sure, I should've probably given Arnold some fears I had with the future of my sister's children but, as always, I chickened out.

Hattie, one of Olga's maids, found us in the game room a few moments later, and Arnold and I quickly ripped our hands from one another's and did our best to appear nonchalant about the whole thing. "Mrs. Portman would like to see you now, Miss Helga," she said politely. "Mr. Shortman, Mr. Portman would like to see you as well. Christoph is downstairs and will take you to his study."

"All right," Arnold and I say together, standing up as one.

I walk after Hattie while Arnold descends the grand staircase to find Christoph, and I am taken to some cream-colored double doors, edged with gold. Hattie places her hand upon the golden door handles and pulls the doors open, stepping onto the fine plush carpeting ahead of me, and walking closer to Olga, who looks up, smiling from her window seat. She inclines her head then as Hattie moves to speak, politeness and reverence in her every word.

"Mrs. Portman, Miss Helga is here."

"Wonderful. Thank you, Hattie," Olga says, and Hattie withdraws then, shutting the doors behind me. "Helga, come," my sister says, holding out her expertly-manicured hand with a smile.

I noticed, as I stepped forward, that she seemed softer; she was no longer thin as a reed, but now seemed...healthy. I knew that she couldn't possibly have lost all the baby weight yet, and yet I hoped she was finished. She looked lovely and, for the first time, I felt as if I wasn't approaching someone that my mother and father had seemed to hail as a god from day one.

"Hello, Olga," I say, sitting across from her on the window seats, turning to look at the frilly bassinets in front of me, and I wondered if I was too late, if I had two nieces, one that would be favored over the other. "Who do we have here?" I asked, forcing a smile as I gazed down at the infants. They were absolutely beautiful, and as Olga gazed down at each one of them lovingly, I could not detect favoritism behind her eyes at either one of them.

"This," she says, touching the plump hand of the one closer to me, with a pink bow edging around the frame of the bassinet, "is Eilis Helga Portman," she says, and I find my eyes darting to her as she says these words. "And this," she continues, as she turns to the second bassinet, this frame edged in blue bow, "is Osias David Portman," she says softly. "Eilis, Osias... This is your aunt Helga," she tells them gently, before turning to me. "I want you to know something..."

"Yes?" I ask her.

"At this moment, Harrison is asking Arnold to be the twins' other godfather," she tells me softly. "His younger brother, David, has agreed to be the first."

"What?" I ask, shaking my head. "Why?"

Olga smiles. "Harrison thinks very highly of Arnold," she tells me patiently. "In fact, it was he who suggested that Arnold go out for the competition."

"Did he?" I ask.

"Yes," Olga tells me. "And now," she says, reaching out and taking me by the hand, "I'm asking you."

I blink. "Asking me?" I whisper, not at all sure what was happening as tears spring automatically to my eyes as I watch them flooding hers. "Asking me what? I don't understand, Olga..."

She smiles. "That's okay—sometimes I don't understand things sometimes until they are made clear," she tells me, clearing her throat. "I'm sorry," she says, and fans her eyes with her free hand. "I know I shouldn't be crying—it's just such a big moment right now... Okay," she says, fasting her free hand into mine, so as she is holding onto me by both hands. "Helga, my baby sister," she says, deliberately gushy do that I laugh a little, "will you be my twins' godmother?"

"What?" I whisper, my voice shaking.

"Will you be Eilis and Osias's godmother?" she asks.

I turn and look at my niece and nephew, utterly shocked at the proposition laid before me by my own older sister. "Olga..."

"I know, I know," she says. "I know we weren't ever best friends or on the best of terms for years running—and it's mostly my fault," she says quietly. "I didn't step in when Mom and Dad were neglecting you—and you having to take yourself to preschool was totally unforgivable... But now, I think, as you're growing up and I've matured a little... I don't know. Maybe it's a good opportunity for us to start over and make a go at being sisters."

I sigh, dashing the tears from my eyes. "You are absolutely right," I say, nodding my head, leaning in and kissing Olga on the cheek. "I would love nothing more than to be the twins' godmother."

Olga grins, throwing her arms around me. "At last, we are sisters," she whispers into my ear.

"We were always sisters," I tell her, pulling back and patting her hand. "At last, we can be friends."

Olga squeezes my hand. "As we always should have been," she replies.


	9. Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

Chapter Nine: Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

Arnold and I returned to Hillwood after a week and a half in New York, eager to make sure that we had everything we needed on our school supply lists. I was quite shocked when my mother immediately handed me a wad of cash when I returned home, with the promise that I could get whatever I needed before school began. I arranged to go to the mall with Phoebe the following day, knowing that Arnold would likely need some guy time with Gerald before school began. Although I was terribly jet-lagged, I could not allow myself to succumb to very deep slumber, for we only had a couple of days before we began the eighth grade, our last time in Mr. Simmons's class, and I wanted to be ready.

"What things were you looking to purchase at the mall, Helga?" Phoebe asked as we rode the bus into Downtown Hillwood.

I shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I could try skinny jeans," I joked.

Phoebe laughed. "Maybe you could," she replied.

"You think so?" I asked, turning to look at her to make sure she wasn't kidding. "I don't know about that..."

"I'm sure Arnold would like you very much in them," she puts in as our bus nears our correct stop. "Who knows? Perhaps they will become a new staple in your eighth-grade look..."

I shrug. "Oh, I don't know... Maybe a few new blouses or something, but you know I've never been terribly concerned with my appearance..."

"You totally altered yours last year, Helga," Phoebe says softly as the bus comes to the stop and as we get off. "Is it true you spent your summer money on—other than the trip expenses for San Lorenzo and to New York—on laser surgery?" she asks, and whispers the final two words.

My cheeks heat as I lower my eyes to the pale gray of the sidewalk below us. "If I had, I wouldn't confirm or deny it aloud," I say.

Phoebe nods. "I understand, Helga. It feels as if our beauty regimens become more and more complex every year..."

I shrug. "Comes with the territory of getting older, I guess," I mutter as we come towards the first department store and step inside.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Helga."

I raise my eyes to Dr. Bliss as I recount what happened between Phoebe and I during our shopping excursion downtown. "But you're the only one who knows," I explain to her. "It's not like I'm under an obligation..."

Dr. Bliss shakes her head, effectively cutting her off. "No, of course not, Helga. I mean, I don't think I would tell anyone myself. It's a personal, private matter that you can only share with people that you are sure you trust."

I bite my lip, gripping the sides of that godforsaken fainting couch again. "I don't know... Phoebe _was_ one of the people I told things to... For _years_ , you and Phoebe were my official secret keepers. Now that I have Arnold, I don't know, things are different, I guess..."

She nods. "Of course things are different—the boy that you loved since the age of four finally returned your feelings when you two were ten-years-old. It was a big step... Well, a series of steps, really—one from mortal enemies, to frenemies, to friends, and, finally, to significant others. I know it can be a little confusing—but it's all okay, Helga."

"Really?" I ask, my tone flat. "How is it okay when it's confusing?"

"Because you're thirteen-years-old," Dr. Bliss replies simply. "Everything is going to be a little confusing. You have to constantly debate with yourself about all the things you do and say... Is this situation appropriate? Why is it appropriate? Is this feeling inappropriate? Why is this inappropriate? You're going to have a few years of wondering why you're feeling the way you do and why you're in certain situations that you may think are unusual."

"How long does it last?" I find myself asking.

Dr. Bliss smiles. "Typically, years," she replied honestly. "The human brain doesn't stop maturing until your mid-twenties typically, so it's not like you're suddenly going to wake up at twenty-one and have your life figured out. You can drive a car at sixteen, vote at eighteen, drink at twenty-one... But there isn't a formal blueprint on how to be an adult. Everyone takes different paths, and you can't just do what your parents want or expect of you. It works for some people out there, Helga, but you can't allow them to make decisions for you forever. You're the kind of person who could just strike out on your own and make something of yourself and it would all be okay."

I shrug my shoulders. "I also feel like the kind of person who needs to be pushed into it—like, there's no other alternative or something. Maybe then I'll have enough courage to get out there and handle it myself."

"You don't have to do it now," Dr. Bliss says gently as I raised my eyes to hers in an automatic gesture. "You can do it when you're ready."

I smile at her. "At least I have time, you know?"

Dr. Bliss tries to smile as she lowers her eyes back to her clipboard, writing something down. "People your age do," she replies.

. . .

 _Dear Helga,_

 _First and foremost—Happy Birthday! How does it feel to officially be seventeen-years-old, and just one more year away from opening that box I left you? Please tell me you haven't peeked yet—I really do want it to be a surprise. It's just one of those things you have to wait for—like your first car or voting for your first-ever President of the United States. Sure, it's a long time coming, but it's worth the wait—well, nine times out of ten, at least._

 _Since springtime is officially here in New York and there in Hillwood, I can't help but wonder when summer weather will officially set in. Of course, springtime is wonderful, but there's that whole romance side to it that we learned from_ Bambi _when we were all kids. I don't know about you, but romance is dead to me and I don't wish to know it any longer. Well, I don't know about dead—I personally think that hibernation would be a better term; dormant, waiting for just the right person to awaken it. I know, I know—two Disney references in one paragraph by someone like me is weird, but, you know..._

 _What are your birthday plans? I know my parents would love to see you, or are you going home? Better yet, are you coming to New York to see Olga? That would be amazing if you were, because then I could accidentally on purpose run into you somewhere like Central Park. I know it wouldn't really be accidentally on purpose but it was worth a shot to ask. You know how much I miss you; I even miss Old Betsy and the Five Avengers—although I'm not sure why you didn't use either of them on me at the airport when I left Hillwood._

 _Enclosed is some cash for you to get yourself something nice for your birthday, as I constantly hear from Gerald about how hard you're working. You obviously deserve a little pick me up—even going to the grocery store and buying something other than ramen or instant noodles would be acceptable to me. All I want is your happiness, Helga—but if you do buy a gorgeous dress or something, don't hesitate to send me a picture of you in it. Okay—I'm totally done with the creepy ex-boyfriend portion of my letter, I swear._

 _Do have fun on your birthday, Helga—as I stated before, I know my parents would love to see you, but if you have other plans, they will understand. Hey, I mean you see them once a week, at least, so maybe you want to delay your visitation to them for a while. I want you to know that you're under no obligation to see them—I know they adore you but if you feel like you have to do it, please don't. I know that they would never want to force anything on you, and after everything I ended up putting you through, I can understand why you wouldn't want to see them for the foreseeable future either._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

. . .

The bus ride across town from Dr. Bliss's office back to my house was uneventful, and as I climbed the stairs, let myself in, called out 'hello' to my mother, I felt that this routine was becoming more and more mundane as time went by. _Perhaps Dr. Bliss was right_ , I thought to myself as I journeyed into the kitchen to make myself a quick sandwich for lunch. _Perhaps I do need to make a few changes here and there, so as to kick my independence into high-gear_...

I soon returned to my room to lay out my outfit for the next day, and smirked at the skinny jeans that were still folded up in the shopping bag from the department store. Maybe this independence thing wouldn't be so bad, I reasoned with myself as I gathered my new clothes into my arms to cut the price tags off. Perhaps this new school year would be full to the brim of good surprises...

The notion that eighth grade was officially beginning and no longer a part of my distant future was slightly overwhelming to me. Of course, I knew it was coming—it would have absolutely killed my father if I failed a grade, although actually skipping a grade was conceivable. However, I didn't want to leave Arnold or the rest of the gang behind—although this was before Arnold was mine, but that was beside the point. I suppose the notion that I potentially sacrificed my future for him in academia at least once had crossed my mind momentarily, but I didn't dwell, for now that he was mine, I didn't think I was permitted to have any large-scale complaints in the grand scheme of things.

It was rather shocking that falling asleep that evening didn't prove to be a total and complete trial, as it usually was on the first day of school, last day before Christmas break, or the last day of the year. Part of me wanted to know where I would be nine months or so from now, when I would be on the brink of high school. The notion was, of course, a daunting one, due to my generation experiencing negativity in the high school world via media. There was _Mean Girls_ , the last four _Harry Potter_ films, and _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_ , for starters. The first had a girl who couldn't decide on who she was and was manipulated otherwise; the second had a boy who was a "Chosen One" who had to vanquish an evil wizard; and the third had a boy who befriended older people, only to lose them at the end due to the older people graduating and he having thousands upon thousands of days of high school left to go.

After setting my outfit for the first day of school upon the back of my desk chair, I took a shower and vegged out for the rest of the day, only leaving my bedroom to throw together a simple casserole for dinner. Upon returning to my bedroom after having cooked and eaten with my parents, I opted to take a bath so as to be completely fresh for my first day of eighth grade. The bath itself was relaxing and it permitted me to think of all the things that Arnold, Phoebe, Gerald, and all the rest of the gang would be learning that year.

My computer held no new emails for me, thankfully, so instead I printed out the essay Mr. Simmons had assigned over the summer about a book of our choice. I had chosen _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ by George Orwell, while Arnold had picked _Of Mice and Men_ by John Steinbeck. I remembered the large list emailed out a week before school ended, where we were to immediately choose a book to read and report on throughout the summer. Since Arnold, Phoebe, Gerald, and I had been in San Lorenzo for much of the summer, we'd agreed to write our reports in the week interim before school ended, and had managed to do so. Phoebe had selected _The Fault in Our Stars_ by John Green, while Gerald had opted for _The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime_ by Mark Haddon.

After shuffling and stapling my papers together, I see that it is getting late so I opt for an early night. Opening my folder and placing my essay inside, I then put my folder into my backpack and zip it up before getting into bed. Turning off the lamp on my bedside table, I see that the sun has just managed to set completely as I pull the chord upon my curtains to lower them downwards. Staring up at the ceiling, I feel my eyes growing heavy as all the preparation flit in and out of my mind as my limbs grow limp and as I fall into sleep.

I awake the following morning to my alarm and hop out of bed immediately, the warm sun seeping through the curtains as I pull them up automatically. Taking off my pajamas and making my way over to my outfit, I hastily put it on and head to the bathroom, where I brush my hair and teeth before judging my appearance to be as unaltered as possible before switching the light off and going towards my bed. I slip on my school-appropriate pair of sandals before putting my backpack over one shoulder and making a grab for my cell phone before leaving my bedroom, closing the door behind me.

I call out good morning to my mother from the living room and grab a cereal bar from the cabinet and my lunch things from the fridge before packing them into their box. I grab a pudding cup from beside the box of cereal bars before leaving the kitchen and making my way towards the front door. Opening it and turning around to lock it behind me, I make my way down the steps and down the block towards Phoebe's house. It is a warm morning on the second day of the second week of September, and the sunshine in the sky fills me with a sense of warm relief as I arrive onto Phoebe's block—not just for that day, but for the new school year, now right in front of me, itself.

Meeting Phoebe and our small talk that followed was a given as we continued down the block together, and as we made our way to the final corner, I felt my heart skip a beat as we neared the edge of the building. Arnold and Gerald then appeared for the two of us, and their respective hands were extended before Phoebe and I took them and continued across the street. I didn't make a snarky comment to Arnold about touching me in public, although he did give me a small smile as we crossed the street, hand clasped, like a pair of young lovers in one of those old-style paintings.

"Looking forward to the school year?" Arnold asked me as we reached the block which held P.S. 118.

I shrug. "Is there an option?"

"Not unless you want to go back to pre-World War II America," Arnold tells me in a quiet voice.

I raise my eyebrows. "What could you possibly know about pre-World War II America, Football Head?" I ask him.

He grins at me. "Most educations stopped at eighth grade so that the young people could work," he replies.

"Tragic," I put in.

He squeezes my hand. "Not the most tragic thing I can think of but still tragic all the same," he replies.

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Now and again I'll lift down the box of whatever it is you've left for me and just sit there for hours holding it—even after all this time, I feel the need to tell you that I do that. Somehow, I don't want to be butchered via letter due to a technicality in our agreement, so I feel the need to inform you that, while I have made physical contact with the box, I've not yet looked inside it. I wouldn't do that, even though you're so far away, I wouldn't go breaking the rules; not now._

 _As for the money you've sent me, Football Head, I took it to the bank and had it put all into ones—let's just say that the bank manager came out to see who was asking for such a ridiculous thing. He was not best pleased when he saw a scrawny, unattractive female who looked as if she was practically dead on her feet from overwork and lack of sleep demanding such a thing. I wouldn't be surprised if he called the banks in the immediate surrounding area to see if any robberies were reported. He obviously came up dry, because I wasn't hauled out from there and into a prison cell._

 _What do I plan on doing with this assortment of one-dollar bills, you ask? Well, my dear Football Head, I intend to keep a dollar in my pocket daily. If something out there strikes my fancy for a dollar or less, I'll buy it. If it doesn't, then I shall go without—I want these dollars to last a long time, Football Head. I'm not starving completely yet, and even if I was, I'd be unlikely to tell you I was. I wouldn't want to add another layer of guilt to the bundle you yourself are wearing constantly in the State of New York._

 _Now that April has dawned, all I can think about is the light at the end of the tunnel known as June. I remember whenever that month arrived, you, Gerald, Phoebe, and I would all grow terribly excited at what lay ahead. Those trips to San Lorenzo were the height of my summer—of course, it didn't hurt that we always found time to recreate our first kiss. I know that Gerald would always feel the need to walk in and interrupt us, but now I don't mind so much. Now, I'm always walking in on him and Phoebe together, locked in a tight embrace or something—it's not to say that it disgusts me, but considering that that could've been us, I'd say I feel more resentful._

 _With prom season just around the corner, I have the distinct impression that Brainy will attempt one of those disastrous promposals. Of course, I will say a resounding no to his question—not because I intend to go stag to one of those overrated organizations, but because I have no intention of going at all. It is a waste of time and money—neither of which I have in great abundance these days—and why waste a night like that when you're not currently head over heels for anyone currently living in your hometown? It makes no sense, and besides, my boss says I could easily make time and a half that night, anyhow._

 _But all this money talk is making me feel uncomfortable. Tell me something wonderful about you in your next letter, Football Head—I could use hearing something amazing right about now. My shifts are too long, as are my school days, and my books are too heavy. I can barely stand up waiting for the bus at the crack of dawn or late at night, and I really want to hear something good. You were always good at making me smile, and I know you won't be able to stop now. Have you found that special someone in New York yet? I know they're out there, and I don't want you holding back out of some loyalty to me, because two and a half years is a long time to be closed off to anything involving the opposite sex. I am officially giving you permission, Arnold, to move on, because I feel like you think you're not allowed to. Go ahead and have some fun—you deserve it!_

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

. . .

September faded into October, followed by November, and then December finally arrived with the promise and anticipation of Christmas just around the corner. Now that Arnold had officially reached the golden age of fourteen, his parents seemed more than a little reluctant to leave us unsupervised for long periods of time. I found the whole thing comical—it's not like we'd done anything, and we'd shared a freaking bedroom on a train before. Arnold, however, seemed to find the entire arrangement annoying and never hesitated in mumbling under his breath that all he wanted was a little alone time with me.

"It can't bother you that much," I said at lunch one day, on the final day before our Christmas vacation had begun. "I mean, please. Your parents love you and pretty much idolize you, and they just don't want you making any mistakes..."

"We haven't made _any_ mistakes," Arnold replies, "because you're the one that isn't ready, and I respect that."

My eyes flit to his and I very nearly roll them but stop myself from doing so. "You know as well as I do that neither of us is ready," I say, deliberately keeping my voice down. "You're fourteen, I'm thirteen— _nobody_ should be ready at this age, and even if they say that they are, they're fooling themselves. That, or they've seen too many Disney films," I say, shaking my head as I lift my sandwich towards my mouth before hesitating. "Did you know that Snow White was only fourteen? Such a terrible message," I say, taking a bite of my sandwich.

Arnold laughs, lifting his orange soda to his lips, which he had become accustomed to drinking as the school year had gone on and shakes his head at me. "Don't you go telling the representatives that," he says. "They'd think you were totally against the company and in need of immediate elimination."

"Seems a little strong for a run-of-the-mill eighth-grader from Hillwood," I say after I've swallowed my bite of sandwich and as Arnold stabs a meatball from his cafeteria spaghetti with his plastic fork and pops it into his mouth. "They don't know who I am, so why shouldn't I attempt to exhaust my first amendment right by saying that Snow White was too young?"

Arnold shrugs. "Maybe because she doesn't _look_ fourteen," he says quietly. "I mean, who wears red lipstick, fake eyelashes, and something that low cut... Even though there was that bow to consider..."

"Even though the film took place in sixteenth-century Germany and fake eyelashes weren't invented until—"

"1911, when they were patented by Anna Taylor," Rhonda puts in, flashing me a grin before returning to her vegetable wrap.

"There you go," I say, turning to Arnold with a smile. "So, your theory proves incorrect, unfortunately, Football Head."

Arnold shakes his head at me, a smile appearing on his lips. "You always said your mom falls asleep in the living room in the afternoons..."

I raise my eyebrows at that. "What does that have to do with anything?" I ask him, utterly confused. "What do my mother's sleeping habits have to do with—?"

"When is your dad usually home?"

I blink, hoping he's not going where I think he is. "Usually not until six. Of course, he could leave the store in the charge of the manager, Larry Ambrose, but what does that have to do with—?"

"We could be alone," Arnold says then, reaching a hand across the table and taking mine in his. "Don't you want to be alone with me?"

I find myself emoting a nervous laugh at that. "You know as well as I do that we discussed this, and came to the direct conclusion that..."

"Helga," he says, "we're not going to do anything. I promise, I won't push you back into a corner and demand anything."

I lower my eyes to my sandwich again, gently easing my hand away from Arnold's and taking a succession of bites in my lunch so as to keep from talking. The very thought of being alone with Arnold filled me with both delight and terror, and I didn't know what to make of it—any of it. The delight was that we would be able to make out uninterrupted; of course, the downside was the potential for getting caught, and I most certainly didn't want an unwanted lecture from my father, who would likely refer to me as 'Olga' throughout...

"Does that sound all right?"

My eyes snap back to Arnold then and I shake my head. "Sorry—deep in thought moment," I say, finishing my sandwich and crumpling up the foil I'd wrapped it in that morning. "You were saying?" I ask, digging into my lunchbox for a spoon and chocolate pudding cup. "I'm listening."

"Does it sound all right going back to your place once in a while after school?" he asks me then, watching me as I use the little package of sprinkles to pour into my pudding, stirring it together and attempting to force my hands not to shake while doing so. "What do you think?" he wants to know.

"Not today," I say then, quickly—too quickly, and hope that he will forgive me, somehow. "Sorry. I have Dr. Bliss after class today..."

Arnold nods, immediately understanding. "Of course. Tell her hi for me, okay?" he says with a smile.

I nodded then, finishing my pudding before the bell rang and wiping my hands on the Wet-One I'd brought with me before heading back to class with Arnold.

I could barely focus for the rest of the afternoon, and had to force myself not to fly out of my seat when the final bell rang. Arnold and I went to our lockers together as we put on our hats and scarves, our boots still in place from that morning. The weatherman had warned about snow that day—and for the rest of the week—and it came as no shock to me as we stepped outside, right into the blazing whiteness. I said goodbye to Arnold, and he noticed that I didn't kiss him as I wandered off down the block. I trekked through the stuff to the bus stop, looking forward to the eventual cathartic experience that awaited me across town.

I felt relief as the bus came chugging around the corner after just a few brief moments, picking me up. I stepped through the doors after a woman with a carriage, a man with a briefcase, and a child with an instrument case stepped out, and swiped my bus pass as I managed to find a solo seat by the window. It was noticeably warmer inside the bus, and I felt relief as we carefully drove through the snow, towards the Downtown Hillwood area, until around ten minutes later, we arrived at the building Dr. Bliss worked in, and I stepped off the vehicle and towards the entrance.

I went into the waiting room, where the friendly secretary told me that she would inform Dr. Bliss that I'd arrived for my four o'clock appointment. I perched in an available chair, giving a cursory glance at the magazines that were beside me upon the maple wood table— _People, US Weekly, Star, Men's Health, Women's Health_ —before I turned to stare at my hands, hastily pulling my gloves off. As the door to Dr. Bliss's office opened, I gave a quick smile and got to my feet, going into her office and walking over to my customary place on the couch before shedding my layers and biting my lip.

"You look troubled, Helga," Dr. Bliss said quietly, shutting the door behind her and coming to sit across from me. "Why don't you tell me what's bothering you, and we'll go from there," she says, picking up her clipboard.

"I think Arnold may want to..." I break off, finding that I am unable to say the words that could condemn him to the "bad boyfriend" category.

Dr. Bliss catches on quickly. "Have you communicated to him that you're not ready for that?" she asks.

I nod. "Yes—and he knows. He just says that he wants to be alone for a while, but I'm afraid that us being alone will lead to more, and I don't want to go there yet because I'm thirteen. I've explained to him that I think we're too young, but he wants to rush head-long into the unknown and I don't..."

She nods. "Well, communication is helpful," she says gently, her pen scratching along her stack of papers. "As is honesty."

I raise my eyes to hers then. "I know," I tell her.

She sighs a little, raising her eyes to mine. "He has the right to know. I know it's bothering you, and I've told you, I don't mind you telling him."

"It's private..." I say, not knowing what else to say.

Dr. Bliss smiles. "I know—but only if I choose to make it so. I've already told you that I don't mind you sharing my secret."

"It's not like you're getting married or anything, or having a baby," I say then, and find I am gripping the side of the couch then. "This is serious."

Dr. Bliss nods. "I know it is. That's what I told you."

I bite my lip then, wondering why all of this had to be happening at once. "I don't want all of this to happen," I whisper. "It's all too fast... I'm not ready..."

"Sometimes, when we think we're not ready, it's when we truly have the maturity to try to be," she replies.

I raise my eyes to hers, and find that my gaze upon her becomes muddled as my eyes fill with tears. "Not like this," I reply. "Not when the knowledge that I could lose the two people that mean the most to me in the space of a year..."

"Don't be afraid, Helga," Dr. Bliss says gently, handing me over a Kleenex. "Fear cannot be trusted, as it gets into your mind and poisons your thoughts."

"I don't want to experience loss," I whisper, dabbing at my eyes.

She nods. "None of us do," she replies.

I lock my eyes with hers. "I just want you to tell me that everything is going to be okay..."

Dr. Bliss spreads her hands. "I can't do that."

"But I wish you could," I say, putting my head into my hands. "I wish it was all going to be okay..."

TO BE CONTINUED


	10. Who Am I To Disagree?

Chapter Ten: Who Am I To Disagree?

I would be lying if I said I was thankful that the Christmas season didn't drag on as it usually did, and soon New Year's had gone on its merry way as well. Valentine's Day also proved uneventful that year, and as March approached, I again told Arnold I didn't want anything for my birthday. Fourteen didn't seem like a very big day to me, personally, so when he suggested a quiet dinner at the boarding house with his parents and grandparents—yet again—I jumped at the prospect of the simplicity of it all.

Olga called from New York about a week before my birthday to check and see if Arnold and I would like to come for spring break again, but we had decided to take a trip to San Lorenzo over the week just for kicks. Olga understood and caught me up on how Osias and Eilis were doing—she said that they were past babbling but not yet speaking coherently, but that they were progressing well. I had a picture of their christening on the desk in my bedroom. It had been a sweltering day in the middle of August, and I was very surprised my hair had not been sticking to my forehead. The twins were asleep in my arms, and, at that point, resembled sacks of flour more so than babies...

Mr. Simmons was hard at work figuring out what we should do for our midterms that year, and it suddenly came to him one afternoon during the week of my birthday. His excitement was very nearly contagious, although I was quite positive that Rhonda wouldn't tolerate such a display, so I kept my mouth shut. Mr. Simmons then walked to the front of the class and began speaking to us in that nervous tone of voice of his, telling us to pick a person anonymously to write an essay about, and then turn it in. We weren't allowed to say anything defaming about the person—it could either be a positive or neutral take on them—and we weren't required to show the person themselves.

That came as a relief, and it was a given that I would choose Arnold, because why wouldn't I, really? The very notion that I was not obligated to show him the essay seemed like an added comfort, and I decided to wait and see what my final product was before I decided. After school that day, I promptly went home and got onto my computer to write a rough draft of my essay, the fact that Arnold didn't know my password equally comforting. Mr. Simmons would likely be expecting me to pick Arnold, so I knew I had to be bold with my language and what I chose to talk about within the pages I was allotted. I didn't want to come across like a typical girlfriend, and I knew then that I couldn't be—typical didn't mix with Helga Pataki, and I think even Arnold knew that. Mr. Simmons obviously had to know that piece of information, too, given that he had been my teacher for four years and had to know me—at least a little...

 _Arnold is different in that when he says he'll do something, he will keep his word unless someone is holding a knife to his throat, or if he is suspended by a rope bridge. He always thinks of others before himself, and never fails to make someone smile when they're feeling down. He is the epitome of goodness, and I know he would never do something to deliberately hurt another person_.

I didn't even have to dig into the volumes of books of poetry I'd written about him for any kind of other source information—besides, how was I to explain to Mr. Simmons where some of the language had come from? I was quite sure that he would be shocked at the notion that Arnold made my girlhood tremble, and I most certainly didn't want Principal Wartz to get involved. That would've been a classic case of authority denying young people free speech—while still allowing it for themselves—and we couldn't have that.

I worked for the rest of the week on my essay, wanting to pour as much as I could into it for, other than whatever my final proved to be, it would be my final piece of work to show for my middle school education. I barely listened when Arnold confirmed the time for my celebration dinner, the Saturday before my birthday, at six-thirty at his house. I would have just enough time, I decided, to hurry home and finish my second draft before getting ready the following night. When school ended, I hastily kissed Arnold on the cheek before Phoebe and I walked to our respective homes together, and I said goodbye to her for the weekend and hurried back to my house and went straight to my bedroom.

When five o'clock arrived the following day, I decided to give my writing a rest and saved my document before pushing back from my computer and letting out an exhausted but well-deserved sigh. When a tap on my bedroom door startled me, I immediately got to my feet and answered it. Suffice it to say having my mother standing out in the hallway holding a garment bag was a little shocking, but I thanked her and took it, heeding her words to wear it that night at the dinner. I nodded and thanked her, and she kissed me on the forehead before shaking her head a little, almost as if she was wondering where the time had gone before she left me standing there with the oversized bag.

Perplexed to say the least, I shut my bedroom door behind me and bring the bag over to my bed. Laying it down flat, I unzip the massive black thing with gold lettering upon it, my eyebrows raising automatically when I catch a glimpse of the 1950's style cocktail party dress. It was a powdery pink color, and would look well with my standard bow, or so I thought. Hanging the bag on one of the hooks on the back of my door, I go into my bathroom to take a shower, mulling over what the dress could mean as I wash my hair. Stepping out of the shower as soon as I've finished, I dry myself off with my towel before hanging it up and pulling my bathrobe around me.

As I return to my bedroom to begin putting on my new outfit, I find that there is some bulkiness lurking at the bottom of the garment bag. Upon examining it further, I find that there are a pair of matching kitten heels below the skirts of my new dress. I find myself smiling at whoever bought me this, for even they knew that I would need a pair of shoes that matched this fabulous dress. I went to my chest of drawers and drew out the necessities, along with a pair of white tights and laid out everything on my bed before returning to the bathroom. I picked up my hair straightener and blow-dryer and plugged them both in, drying my hair before I straightened it with a special brush Olga had sent me over Christmas. I managed to clip my bow to the back center of my head as I left the bathroom after a final look in the mirror.

Managing to somehow zip my dress without any formal assistance, I stepped into my new pair of heels and gazed at myself in the mirror. _Not too shabby_ , I thought to myself then. For the first time, I thought I looked somewhat pretty, and the matching purse and pearl necklace—found tucked away at the back of the garment bag—didn't hurt the ensemble either. It was then that I felt a rattling in the purse then and, upon unzipping it, I discovered a pair of short gloves, a pink compact mirror, and shimmering pick lip gloss on the inside. I popped open the compact and spread some of the lip gloss over my lips before popping it back into the purse and pulling on the gloves.

Heading downstairs—as it was after six and I did not particularly wish to run all the way to Arnold's house—I spotted my mother waiting for me by the front door with a smile on her face. She held a pink silk wrap in her hands, which she expertly draped around my shoulders and middle back before opening the door for me, making sure I had my key as I walked down the stairs. She told me to have a good time that night, before wishing me a happy birthday and shutting the door gently behind me as I began walking down the block.

It wasn't completely dark yet as I walked down the block and towards the boarding house. Phoebe's house was well-lit, and I wondered what she and her family would be doing that weekend. It was still too cold to go to the beach, although I did wonder if she and Gerald were at the movies. It was a Saturday night, after all, and lots of young couples found themselves, hand clasped, doing god knows what in the darkness of a movie theater.

 _Get it together, old girl_ , I thought to myself. _You're officially fourteen-years-old on Monday, and you have every right to consider activities like that, just don't partake in them, because you're not ready and too young_...

As I continued down the block, I neared the part of it where Arnold and Gerald would join Phoebe and I on our walks to school. Smiling to myself as I turned down the block in that direction, I kept on going through the setting sun as I neared the boarding house. I reached the final corner, looking both ways out of habit as I crossed the street, and soon I had reached the gray stone staircase. Climbing up them carefully, I drew my gloved hand upwards and knocked, and barely allowed myself to acknowledge the scuffling from behind the door. Arnold opened it, dressed elegantly in a suit and bow tie, and I nearly giggled aloud as his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at the sight of me, and I tried my best to smile at him as he took me by the hand.

"You look beautiful," he declared.

I shrug. "I don't know..." I said, feeling the flush developing on my cheeks as he pulled me inside. "I guess...maybe..." I was slightly taken aback when I saw the darkness greeting me from the dining room, but Arnold merely pulled me through the house and up the stairs, past his bedroom, and towards the staircase for the roof, which he soon pushed open. I was soon greeted by everyone surrounded by twinkling tea lights—Mr. and Mrs. Shortman, Arnold's grandparents, Phoebe, Gerald, Harold, Rhonda, Nadine, even Mr. Simmons—and everyone else in our class at school.

"Surprise!" everyone shouted, and I nearly fell over in the heels.

"Happy Birthday, Helga!" Arnold said happily.

"Happy Birthday, Helga!" yelled everyone else.

I shook my head. "What's all this?" I asked, gaping aloud at the sight of Phoebe and Rhonda dressed in similar dresses to mine, as well as Gerald, dressed similarly to Arnold in a snazzy suit. "What's going on?"

"It's your last birthday before high school, Helga," Arnold explained with a grin at having managed to pull this all together. "And I thought, I don't know, maybe you deserve something totally amazing and unexpected and—"

I throw my arms around him and hug him, cutting him off, but just manage to hear him chuckle in my ear. "I love it," I whispered to him, soft enough that only he will be able to hear. "I love it so much."

Arnold pulled back from me then and kissed me on the cheek, before he took two glasses filled with sparkling cider from an offered tray, carried by Mrs. Shortman, and handed one over to me. "To Helga, on her fourteenth birthday—which is on Monday, but we're holding it on Saturday because there's no school tomorrow. I mean, what can I say about Helga?" he asks, taking my hand again and gazing into my eyes. "She organized our first trip to San Lorenzo, she helped me and Gerald find the place of the Green-Eyed people, and she briefly sacrificed her locket so that my parents—and the kingdom—could be saved. She is an amazing girlfriend and person, and I couldn't be happier to have her in my life," he says, raising his glass with a smile. "To Helga!" he declares.

"To Helga!" everyone says, raising their glasses to me and taking a drink.

"Whooo!" Harold shouts then, turning around then and pressing the iPod holder behind him. He looked a little shocked as _I Only Have Eyes for You_ by The Flamingos started playing, but nevertheless shouted, "Let's dance and party!" and grabbed Rhonda by the hand and proceeded to dance.

"I'm game for it, if you are," Phoebe says to Gerald, who grins and leads her onto the dance floor, as other couples begin pairing up as well.

"Helga?" Arnold says, and I turn to look at him, seeing his extended hand. "Would you like to dance?"

I nodded. "Of course," I reply, taking his offered hand and allowing him to lead me onto the dance floor. "This is nice," I say quietly as he pulls me towards him, letting me rest my chin upon his shoulder. "Thank you for this, Football Head," I say softly to him. "For all of it...everything," I say, pulling back and gazing upwards at him—he is so tall, but the heels manage to help.

"I wanted you to have a fantastic birthday, Helga," he says.

I grin up at him. "You succeeded," I reply as the song swells around us. "It's amazing, in every way."

"I'm glad," he replies.

"Me, too," I say back, managing to barely extend my legs to tiptoe territory as I manage to take his face into my hands and kiss him.

. . .

 _Dear Helga,_

 _I was just thinking about your fourteenth birthday as springtime is here at last again in New York. Back when things seemed simpler, before it all went wrong; it was back when Dr. Bliss was around, back before all the fights and arguments that just seemed like they couldn't be helped. I wish I'd tried to talk to you in a different perspective about the whole thing, instead of blaming you about the notion that you didn't want me to have a future. I know you did, and yet I also know that you were afraid of what would happen if I left. I was afraid too, and all my worst fears were realized when I did finally leave, and things fell apart._

 _One of my professors out here said something interesting to me; he compared a relationship to a house plant. House plants need water, sunshine, food, care, and love—all things humans need from one another, either in a familial way, a platonic way, or romantic way. I think that's why things got lost in translation with us, Helga, ultimately, because we didn't give our relationship everything it needed. I think humans need two things that plants don't—communication and honesty. If I communicated with you a little bit better, and was able to explain in an honest manner what I was feeling, and able to listen to you as well, I think, perhaps, things would have been different._

 _I remember how pretty you looked in that dress. I remember going to that big department store in Downtown Hillwood with my mom and picking it out for you. I remember laughing when she suggested something a bit more frilly and girly and elegant for you, but something about that dress spoke to me. It was simple and elegant all on its own—just like you are, and just like you shall always be. The pearl necklace was from your father, the shoes from Olga, and the wrap was from your mother. She said she wanted to hand-deliver everything to you; I think she thought it would help make up for all her short-comings towards you all these years, and I can see that, for a moment, at least, it helped. You were so radiant and happy that night, and I wouldn't change that night for anything in the world; it was truly the beginning of the end._

 _I know things went wrong for a reason, Helga—I just can't fathom why they seemed to unravel so quickly. I'd give anything to change it, but nobody can turn back time, unfortunately. I think we have to make the best of a bad situation, and figure out how to continue on through it._

 _Your friend,_

 _Arnold Shortman_

. . .

The spring break trip to San Lorenzo was unbelievably amazing, and Arnold barely even looked at the Green-Eyed princess while we were down there. He said hello when we first arrived, and goodbye when we left back home for Hillwood. Arnold and I took our annual romantic walk along the stone bridge, and even managed to recreate our first kiss. Everything was as it should be, and as we arrived home, the large envelopes waiting for us made us doubly excited.

I called Arnold immediately, my heart pounding, and he said he had just arrived in his room and found his. "We'll open them together," I said breathlessly.

"On three," he replied.

"Okay. One..." I said.

"...two..." he said.

"Three!" we shouted together, ripping open the envelopes and gazing at what inevitably lay inside.

"You go first," he said.

"No, you," I told him.

"You!" he cried out, laughing.

"Fine," I said, looking over the words. "Dear Miss Pataki, we are very happy to announce that you have exceeded expectations in the enrollment application and are here to tell you that you have been accepted into Hillwood Academy for Girls on a full-scholarship, starting September seventh, with an introductory tea at two p.m. the day before, where you will receive your first-year, or freshman year, uniform. You have our permission to look into class scheduling and go on our website to figure out what books you'll have. A personal promo code is enclosed to make sure that your books are free. More information to follow, Miss Pataki, and again, our heartfelt congratulations as we formally welcome you to the Hillwood Academy family."

"That's amazing, Helga!" Arnold said.

"Now you!" I ordered, never one for ceremony.

"Okay," he said, and I could hear him ripping the envelope on the other end of the phone and gasped. "Dear Mr. Shortman, first and foremost, welcome to Hillwood Preparatory for Boys on a full scholarship! Our term begins on September seventh, and we expect you there for orientation an hour before school begins—promptly at seven a.m. sharp. Your first-year or introductory uniform will be delivered to your address, with an information form for it enclosed in the envelope. Please feel free to go online to our website with the promo code provided to sign up for classes and access your books. We look forward to seeing you at the orientation, and encourage you to sign up online for it. Welcome to the Hillwood Preparatory family, Mr. Shortman. We look forward to meeting you."

"This is amazing," I said softly. "Olga says they only accept four kids from the eighth grade at P.S. 118. I wonder who the other two are..."

"I suspect we'll find out soon enough," Arnold replied.

We didn't have long to wait, because the following Monday, while walking to school, Phoebe told me and Gerald told Arnold that they had also been chosen. It was a wonderful experience, knowing that my best friend would still be at school with me the following year, with our boyfriends just across the street. School began as normal and as the class all piled into their seats, Mr. Simmons took a moment to congratulate Phoebe, Gerald, Arnold, and I on our acceptances to Hillwood Academy and Hillwood Preparatory respectively. Then, Mr. Simmons asked us about our progress on our midterms, we each gave a thirty-second report on how things were coming, and I found I was still debating on whether or not to show Arnold the final product.

I knew what would ultimately happen; ultimately, Arnold would find out or figure out that I'd written about him and convince me to let him see it. I loved that about him—how he allowed me to face my fears like that. As the rest of April dwindled into that little puddle of forgotten early springtime, and as May began, the tension began to mount, as I knew that the results of the New York competition would be arriving in a matter of weeks. Whether or not it was a rejection or an approval, all I wanted to do was know the truth. And as June dawned, and I knew that it was now officially just around the corner, and I grew uneasy as it became completely clear—as before it had merely been a suggestion that we skip it—that San Lorenzo was officially off the table that summer.

I found myself humming to myself one afternoon in the first week of June—four weeks to the day of turning in my second midterm essay—and found myself slightly restless. Graduation was two weeks away, and finals were the following week, also around the corner. It was a warm Saturday afternoon, and as I walked over to my window, I saw that the gang had decided to play some kickball outside —something that Rhonda had said was 'uncool', and had been since we were in the fourth grade. Raising my eyebrows at the notion that she was playing too, I threw down my algebra textbook and ran outside to join them. It was nice just to be carefree for those fleeting moments—before I was a private school girl, before I was Arnold's girlfriend, before we entered the stupid competition...

I was officially snapped back to reality a week later when finals began, and I cursed myself for not going over my algebra in a more complete manner. Suffice it to say I momentarily stumbled on a few questions, and my English and History finals went significantly better. For the final for science, we had to simply write up a lab with the most science terms we could remember—let it be known that 'hypothesis' entered my thoughts more than once. Finally, when I was able to throw my pencil down and rest my hand that Friday afternoon—the final day of finals—all I wanted to do was go home to sleep.

Rhonda's party was that night, and I knew it would look weird if I wasn't there, so I compromised with a nap beforehand. I put on a black dress that night with a knee-length skirt, and found a pair of heeled boots that had once belonged to Olga, made of real black leather which reached my upper knee. I put on my pink lip gloss and straightened my hair again, and for the first time, as I lifted it to position it in my hair, I found myself drawing back my hand and gazing down at my pink bow which had become my trademark for so long. I gazed at myself in the mirror then —my cheeks flushed from the heat and the excitement of starting high school the following year—and shook my head.

Simply running a brush through my hair and leaving it hanging down my back, I returned to my bedroom and opened my keepsake box on my dresser, placing my bow inside it. I stroked its sides for a moment before dashing the momentary tears which entered my eyes before I shook my head a second time. I slammed the box shut and turned my back on it, gathering up my clutch bag—another gift left behind by Olga—and slipped my phone into it before switching off my light and leaving my bedroom.

Arnold didn't say anything about my missing bow, and I was not sure he even noticed it as we danced with the whole gang at the party tonight. He unexpectedly walked me all the way home that night around ten p.m. and I kissed him goodnight before telling him I would see him Monday. Monday afternoon was graduation and I planned to sleep throughout the morning to ensure that I was all in one piece for the ceremony itself. When Sunday passed by quickly and Monday arrived, I got up around eleven a.m. and was surprised to hear a familiar voice coming up through the floorboards and into my room.

Getting up out of bed and straightening my T-shirt and shorts, I gathered my snarled hair into a messy ponytail and headed downstairs, surprised to see Olga in the kitchen, making brunch for our parents. Dad had said that he would take the whole day off of work for the ceremony, but I hadn't been sure whether to believe him or not until now. Our parents greeted me pleasantly, but Olga swept me into a hug and informed me that she wouldn't have missed this for anything, before gently pushing me into a chair and encouraging me to eat the crepe with cream and strawberries she had made for me.

"Thank you," I said, still in shock as I managed to pick up my fork. I made small talk with the family, and Olga gave me a bag from Fifth Avenue in New York and waited with baited breath as I rummaged through the tissue paper to find a pale pink sundress which was very grown up. "Thank you," I said again, nodding when she mentioned it was for the ceremony that day.

I finished my crepe with a third and final awkward thank you before putting my plate and fork into the dishwasher, and snagging a water bottle from the fridge. I took the bag with the dress inside and took it upstairs, placing it on my bed as I went into my bathroom to shower and ready myself for the afternoon ahead. I flat-ironed my hair as soon as it was dry enough before I slid the dress over my head and gazed at myself in my floor-length mirror. My pink, open-toed sandals showed off my pedicure, got over the weekend via a gift card from Olga, and picked up the flimsy graduation gown, weighing it in my fingers.

I turned around then, pressing the home button upon my phone to check the time, and found out that I had half an hour to get to the school. Olga tapped on my door and told me that she had gotten a rental car and could drive me herself so that she could reserve some seats. I accepted and picked up my graduation gown again, putting it on and zipping it up before making a grab for the silk sash which had P.S. 118 printed upon it, and placed this around my neck. Next, I picked up the cap and placed it upon my head, turning the tassel the correct way and finding that I was biting my lip in anxiety before putting on the official necklace which stated that I was a Hillwood Hedgehog, as well as the sash that went around me like some sort of pageant queen, announcing that I was in the honor society.

I went downstairs, after putting my phone and my locket into my pocket for good luck, meeting Olga by the front door. We called goodbye to our parents before stepping out of the house and towards her spiffy rental car, which she opened automatically and allowed me into the front seat. As I settled into my seat, putting on my seatbelt carefully to ensure as little wrinkling as possible to my clothes, I turned and watch Olga stick the key into the ignition and pull off down the street towards my school.

I felt my eyebrows knitting together in a moment of confusion. "So, why didn't Harrison or the twins come?" I asked casually as we drove.

"What, I'm not enough for you?" Olga joked with a laugh, although something rang false behind it.

I blinked, not prepared for this. "Um, no of course you are," I said, stumbling not to offend her. "No, I just meant that you two usually seem to want to travel together—you said so..."

"Have you ever tried traveling with twins that aren't even a year old yet?" Olga asked as we turned a corner. "I mean, please. You wouldn't even want to consider doing it..."

I shake my head. "No, I guess I didn't think about that..."

Olga smiled. "And why would you?" she asked, not unkindly. "It's not something that a fourteen-year-old should be thinking about, anyway..."

"Well, Harrison's family lives out there," I said quietly. "I mean, couldn't his family have watched the twins for a day or two?"

"Harrison and I decided that, for the first five years, the two of us wouldn't travel at the same time," Olga said, her voice encroaching on the impatient territory as we moved closer and closer to P.S. 118. "It's a bonding thing, I guess—I don't know, I mean, his mother suggested it..."

I raised my eyebrows. "Mother-in-law from hell?" I asked.

Olga shrugged. "I don't know—I hardly see her," she says.

"Why? You took online classes to make sure you were constantly around for Osias and Eilis for those first few years..."

Olga sighs. "I didn't tell Mom and Dad, but I guess I can tell you... I got my PhD in January," she says with a smile.

"What?!" I cry out, grinning. "Olga! Why didn't you say something?!"

"You're in your last year at P.S. 118 before going onto high school," she replies. "I know the last few months before that big transition can be full of stress, and I didn't want that for you."

I smile. "Well, I appreciate the consideration, but I think getting a PhD is a much bigger deal than graduating eighth grade," I put in. "Wait... Is your getting your PhD why Harrison isn't here? Is he threatened by it or something?"

Olga sighs. "I got a job offer in Los Angeles," she says quietly. "It wouldn't start until September, but I have to say a definitive yes or no by the end of this month. I got it just after your birthday," she tells me, "in the first week of April."

I sigh, finally finding a fault in my brother-in-law. "And Harrison doesn't want you to take it?" I predict.

Olga nods. "Exactly. He thinks that because his career was established first that I should try to make a go of it in New York. He and his family have friends in ever career division you can think of—medical, law, education, you name it. I guess he thinks he can buy me a career like he can buy me a pair of boots."

"Do you want to take it?" I ask.

"Admittedly, yes," Olga replies, reaching the final block before my school. "But I can't just decide like that..."

"Olga, this is not pre-1920's where women are bound to their husbands," I say firmly, almost as if I am the older sister and she is the younger. "If you want this job, then tell Harrison that. Communication and honesty are the best policies in any relationship," I say, and it is then that I want to slap myself upside the head, for one week ago, I had gotten a letter from the Columbia University Competition for Young Applicants, telling me that I had been hand-picked from the entire stack of candidates, and that I had to formally decide by the second week in August if I was in or out.

"Yes, I know that," Olga said, bringing me back to the present. "But this could potentially break up my marriage. I don't want to think about it."

"Then don't," I reply, my voice quiet. "Don't think about it—not today. Wait until you get home and then discuss it calmly and rationally. I know you'll figure out a solution that's best for everyone."

Olga sighs as she pulls up in front of my school. "Break a leg in there...baby sister," she says quietly.

I turn around and smile at her. "I'll do my best...big sister," I say, leaning in and giving her a fleeting hug before dashing from the car.

. . .

 _Dear Arnold,_

 _Don't fault me for not writing for a few weeks—things have been pretty hectic here on my end. Before Gerald or Phoebe leak the information to you, I'd like you to be the first to know that, as of last week, I dropped out of Hillwood Academy. I took my GED the day after I signed my walking papers, and got my results within hours of taking the test. I passed with flying colors; now I can take over more duties at the restaurant, and was promoted to assistant manager. I know this wasn't originally intended in the cards for me, but life has a funny way of doing this to you sometimes._

 _Now I'm going to tell you something that I never thought I would tell you, Football Head, but it's been eating away at me and I can't stand it anymore. You may think I'm crazy, so I sent along the documentation as proof, just so you don't think that I'm a total masochist. The thing is, a week before eighth grade graduation, I got a letter from the Columbia University Competition for Young Applicants, accepting me into the program of my choice. I didn't want to leave you or Hillwood or any of it, so I declined... I declined..._

. . .

I kept my mouth shut about winning the competition, because, just like my sister, I just didn't want to think about it. The notion of leaving my hometown, all I'd ever known, and Arnold... I couldn't do it—any of it. I went through the motions of the graduation ceremony; my name was printed in the program of the top ten students with the best GPA's. Arnold and I tied for third, while Phoebe was first and Gerald was second. Since Gerald and Phoebe were named second and first respectively, the pair of them were required to make speeches during the ceremony, while Arnold and I merely had to smile and wave to the crowd gathered together with the group of eight other students.

The rest of June passed like a hot haze, and when July arrived, I knew that I couldn't accept the competition. In July, the fair came to town and I surprised Arnold with two tickets. We went through the Tunnel of Love, and we experienced our first 'real' kiss in that it was different, one we'd never permitted ourselves to experience before. It just felt right, in that moment, knowing that once I told the university what I'd decided, that I hoped he would remember it forever—that, and we got a photo snapped of us, mid-kiss. At the end of the day, I went to a commemorative coin machine and, with that picture, made coins while Arnold was proving himself as a strong man.

That night, after the fair, my mind was made up.

However, my plans would be deferred as mono took over, clouding my every thought and rendering me in bed for over two weeks. Once it finally lifted completely, I drafted a letter to the competition, telling them to give the prize to Arnold, for he was more deserving than I would ever be. I may have used my essay for inspiration, and mentally thanked Mr. Simmons for suggesting that as a midterm assignment in the first place.

I felt my eyes grow heavy with tears as I moved my mouse to the left corner of the email program I used, pressing send before I could change my mind. From that moment, I knew full well what I had to do. From that moment, I vowed to keep my mouth shut...

. . .

 _I'm so, so sorry I didn't tell you before, Arnold. I know you must hate me, and, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't blame you. You must think I did this whole thing as a test to see how loyal you were to me. To be honest, the thought did occur to me, and it was a stupid thing to do. I should have never done something like this, and I know that, after all this time, to apologize now makes absolutely no sense._

 _To think I put you through such hell and then just expected you to automatically forgive me, and to continue to lay on the guilt for over a year... My behavior is inexcusable, and I know, if I were you, I would not forgive me. The fact that I had you and lost you in bad faith...I shall never forgive myself for that—for any of it—and neither should you..._

. . .

When Arnold came by three days later—after all the germs were assured to be gone by the doctors—he was gleeful. In his hands, he triumphantly carried the official documentation telling him of his acceptance into the Columbia University Competition for Young Applicants. I had to pretend to be surprised and delighted at everything he told me, and I did my best to channel a young Meryl Streep throughout the exchange. I used my just getting better after mono to get out of the celebratory dinner that evening—I just couldn't face it.

I couldn't face any of it—knowing that I was truly going to lose him in a matter of just two weeks. The terms 'dark room' and 'fetal position' readily come to mind when I think of those dark days, and I would never wish it on anyone. The first week passed and I barely saw or spoke to Arnold—I didn't want to threaten his imminent departure to New York, although it ate me up inside.

I went over to the boarding house at the beginning of the second week; I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him that I'd originally be accepted—I wanted to hurt him, to let him know that he had been the second choice, and that he should leave me, because I didn't deserve him. I didn't deserve any of it, which is why I had asked for it to be given to him. When I had checked my email, I realized that, for the first time, I had not asked for that. At all.

I had named all the qualities of Arnold, without putting a name to the face that I was painting a picture of. By simply going over the applications again, these intelligent people at Columbia University were able to figure out just which one Arnold truly was. And that was how he was picked. That was how—my stupid essay which did nothing but cause trouble.

"Don't do this," I said quietly as I watched him sorting his clothes. I watched as he stopped what he was doing, and turned to look at me. "Don't leave Hillwood. Not before we've finished high school. Don't go."

Arnold very nearly glared at me. "Helga, let me ask you something."

"Anything," I replied, hoping that he would ask if they picked me first, so that I could get off the hook.

"Do you not care about my future?" he asked.

"I—" I found I couldn't answer the question immediately, I was so thrown. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're my girlfriend," he said, striding towards me and placing his hands upon my shoulders from where I stood, leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed to keep myself from physically lashing out. "Girlfriends are always supposed to care about their boyfriends' futures—and vice versa. Can you honestly tell me that you don't care about my future?"

"Arnold!" I cry out.

"Because you're starting to sound like you don't," he says. "Just tell me—do you or do you not care about my future?"

I backed away from him, willing myself not to cry as his arms dropped. "I can't believe you just asked me that question," I whisper.

"Answer me," he ordered.

"Oh, I care," I said, feeling myself trembling as I forced myself not to outright sob at his implications. "I care too much apparently..." I turn away then, looking down at the staircase—where he had climbed with me proudly to show me my surprise party, where we had climbed for our countless study sessions, and where he had climbed solo to find out that we had won the contest for San Lorenzo. All seemed like they were several lifetimes ago...

"Helga?"

I turned to look at him, walking up to him and kissing him on the cheek. "I will see you tomorrow. I'll be over bright and early to ride with you and your parents to the airport," I reply, turning on my heel and running down the stairs.

. . .

 _I'm not about to say that I was the only imperfect party here, Arnold. The way you treated me was unacceptable, the day before you left. The way you were demanding things of me—how could you ask me if I cared about your future? I cared so much—why do you think I essentially told them all at Columbia to pick you for this thing instead of me?_

 _It's because I didn't deserve it, and you did. Besides, my volumes of poetry about you would have never been able to pass through security. The sensors would have picked up on some of the language, and then I'd been in airport prison. Bad girlfriend prison, maybe, but not airport prison..._

. . .

Mr. and Mrs. Shortman made small talk in the front seat the following morning as Arnold and I sat on opposite ends of the backseat. He attempted to take my hand a few times, but I wouldn't allow it. Finally, I allowed him to hold it, but I made no moves to hold it back. We parked in the parking lot, and Mr. Shortman gathered Arnold's luggage from the backseat, Arnold helping to carry some of the weight until we managed to find one of those massive rollers to help do our job for us as we trekked through the airport.

Mr. Shortman and Arnold printed out his boarding pass, and I spoke quietly to Mrs. Shortman during that time. Once his boarding pass was printed, Mr. Shortman paid the fee to allow Arnold's larger bags to be hauled into the separate plane compartment. We then walked with Arnold to security, and Mr. and Mrs. Shortman said goodbye before walking a short distance away, to allow me to say goodbye to Arnold on my own.

"I hope you have a safe trip," I say, and manage to catch Arnold's attention away from the security line, and I know he is thinking of all those times we had to spend in them together. "And I hope you find everything you're looking for."

"Everything I'm looking for?" he asked.

I nodded. "And I mean everything."

"Helga, what are you saying?" he asks, distress in his face and tone at the coldness of my voice. "I don't—"

"Save it," I reply, forcing myself not to outwardly weep and demand for him to stay behind with me. "You'll have a fantastic time, and all that that entails, and I want you to experience everything that New York has to offer."

"What does that—?" he asks.

I straighten myself up then, knowing that I sound terrible, but also knowing that it was for the best. "It means that you don't have to worry about me," I reply. "It means that I'm ending things."

"Helga—"

"No," I say, my voice firm, catching ever so slightly before I manage to keep my emotions in check. "It's over."

"But Helga, I l—"

"Don't say it now," I said, the tears finally entering my eyes. "You never said it before, and an airport security line is hardly the proper time to say it." I dash the tears from my eyes. "Look, Football Head—it was never going to work. I don't want you to cleave to the notion that you have someone here watching your every move. You have permission to see other people, because you won't have me to worry about."

"Helga, I can't help it," he says, attempting to take my hand again. "I'm always going to worry about you."

"Then stop," I whisper, stepping away from him. "Goodbye, Arnold Shortman," I say, and turning my back on him before I disappear through the crowd.

. . .

 _Other secrets I carried with me, too, Arnold. I think that since so long has passed, and we always preach honesty to each other, I think we should share them. One I can share with you now, because I think a part of you has always known. Always known that it was difficult for me, but also before I knew that losing two people I cared so much about was too difficult to bear..._

. . .

THREE MONTHS LATER

"I don't understand," I whispered, feeling myself shaking then as I faced the rather imposing attorney on the other side of the desk. "I was only her patient. Why she would leave me anything in her will is beyond me..."

"You were obviously a great friend to Lisa Bliss," the attorney replied, shuffling the papers in front of him.

"I didn't know it got as bad as it did—the cancer, I mean," I said, shaking my head then as I mulled it over.

"Cancer of the brain affects between one-hundred thousand and two-hundred thousand people every year," he says quietly. "Now, Miss Pataki, I am prepared to let you know what Dr. Lisa Bliss has left you in her will."

"Okay," I whispered. "I'm ready."

"She has left you her apartment," he says. "It's been paid up for another three years or so, but it needs some work..."

I nodded. "Obviously, I can't move in now. I'm fourteen, and I still live with my parents... I could get emancipated, I guess..."

"You could," he says. "It's all preliminary, of course. You just have to authorize it at this point. Dr. Bliss could live another year."

I nod. "Of course. Very well. I'll authorize it," I say, and he hands me a pen, and I manage to sign my name to the document. I leave the office shortly thereafter, the coolness of the winter weather barely phasing me as I pull my coat closer around me and make my way towards the bus stop. I receive a notification on my phone, merely telling me to get to the hospital and quickly, and when I finally arrive, I am told to go to room 110, and I barely make it there in time. "Dr. Bliss!" I cry out when I see that it is her room. "What—?"

"It's going to happen today," she says with a slight smile.

"No. No, it's not," I say, shaking my head. "The doctors—they said another few months, at best. Not today... Not now..."

She continues smiling at me. "I know it's hard—Arnold leaving me and me now on my way out the door. But these things can't be helped, Helga. Life can't be helped, and neither can death."

"Dr. Bliss..." I say, feeling my eyes fill with tears.

She smiles. "It'll be okay. I promise."

"How can you promise that?" I demand, sobbing now as I felt I should have done when Arnold left. "How can you? Everyone I love leaves me..."

"Helga, you're a fighter," she says, taking my hand in hers and clasping it. "I know it seems like darkness is coming in for you, but don't let it." She coughs then, and turns away from me, but I know that I won't get sick—not like this.

"I'm not ready to be on my own," I whispered.

She smiles. "Sometimes we're not. Sometimes we are. All I know is, if you're not ready now, you will be. Soon."

"Don't..." I whisper.

She reaches up then and cups my face, gently wiping some of my tears away. "I know things will work out for you, Helga Pataki. I know they will."

"I need you to guide me," I whisper. "I need you..."

"You did—when you were nine," she replies simply. "Now you're fourteen. I've helped you for five years, Helga, and I've done my best with you. But now I know that, since it's time for me to move on, you have to move on."

"I can't," I whisper. "I can't. Please..."

She shakes her head. "I can't just live because you beg for it, Helga. _I_ can't." She claps my hand again. "But I know it'll work out."

"Tell me it's going to be okay," I say brokenly.

She smiles. "I know it will be," she replies, her eyes shutting then, and it is then that I hear the heart monitor flat-line, and her grip goes slack in mine, and I fall to my knees in despair as there is a flurry of activity around me, as all the doctors and nurses attempt to save her life in vain.

I mechanically drag myself out of there, walking down the hall of the hospital and outside, where I walk the two miles home. I lean up against my house when I arrive, the tears frozen on my cheeks, as I take out my phone and dial the number that I'd been given by Mr. and Mrs. Shortman, but had vowed never to use. When the voice on the other end answers, fresh tears form in my eyes.

"Helga? Is that you?"

I clear my throat. "Yes," I reply.

"What's wrong?" he asks, immediately concerned.

I sigh then, and find I cannot say it. "Dr. Bliss is gone," I whisper, and then my hand goes slack and I cut the call.

. . .

 _It was stage four brain cancer that took her away from all of it, Arnold. For so long I couldn't bring myself to say it. She left me her apartment in her will—the place I now call home. Never did I think it, but when I found the adoption papers in some of her things, with my name beside 'Name of Child' and her name beside 'Name of Applicant', I knew her true intentions. She'd brought it up to me in that veiled way of hers, but never did I think she actually meant it. Apparently, she was rejected—I don't have all the details._

 _That was the problem with me, Arnold—when love came calling, I didn't think I deserved or was worthy of it. Maybe along some lines I wasn't, but along others, I was worthy. It just took me a little longer to see it that way, but even I know that it was a little too late—especially after all that I've told you. I guess the bottom line out of all this is, we did love each other—I knew you were going to say it that day at the airport, but I didn't want to hear it._

 _We loved each other, that was a given, although I cannot fathom why you never felt the need to say it. I knew it, for sure, but it would have still been nice. Maybe the point of all this is, is that we weren't ready for all of it. We jumped into things and thought that that was it—that we would be together forever. I guess getting ready for things is important, because we weren't..._

 _Your friend,_

 _Helga Pataki_

END OF SEASON ONE


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